


Die Hard the Hunter

by ghostyouknow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action, Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Community: spn_j2_bigbang, Ensemble Cast, Gen, Gen Fic, Horror, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:58:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 59,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostyouknow/pseuds/ghostyouknow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Shadows appeared a year ago. They're dark, silent, blurry masses that don't seem to do much, and most people have gotten used to them. Dean's just an alcoholic, washed-up crook whose own brother wants him dead, but he doesn't trust them–especially now that he's got one hot on his trail, and it won't quit talking in Sam's voice. </p><p>And that's before an angel and a demon join the chase and Dean starts to turn into a Shadow...and why does everyone keep talking about an apocalypse?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean caught his reflection in a storefront window. The security grate sectioned him into pieces: a pale jaw, one dark eye, the brim of a knit cap, a square of overlarge puffy jacket, a collar popped up against the brutal February wind.

Behind him, a dark smear moved across the glass. Dean hadn't shaken his Shadow.  
  
They weren’t supposed to attack people. Then again, they weren’t supposed to stalk people either, and this one had been following him since he’d left the Smith & Wesson an hour ago.  
  
The Shadows had appeared out of nowhere a little over a year ago. One day, no one had ever heard of them. The next, they were everywhere: big, dark, masses that drifted like jellyfish without a current. Some people believed they were aliens. Others thought they were portents of doom. There had been talk of invasions and nuclear war. The panic had gone sky-high when Shadows were taped moving through walls.  
  
But the Shadows didn't ask to be taken to any leaders. They didn't attack anyone. In fact, they never did anything. Ever. No biting, no talking, no mass extermination of the human race. They were attracted to motion, so they'd slowly trail cars, dogs, tumbleweeds. But they couldn't focus, and they never followed anything for very long. A few cults had sprung up to worship the damn things. Everyone else purchased leaf blowers to keep them out of their yards.  
  
Dean? He didn't trust them. Things didn't pop out of nowhere for no reason. They were up to _something_.  
  
This one seemed intent on doing something to _him_.  
  
Dean ducked behind the back of a restaurant and found himself in a brick alleyway. A rusty Chevy S-10 was parked by the backdoor of the restaurant, right in front of a dumpster. Its bed was lined with a half-weighted tarp. One corner flapped in the wind. Glass bottles littered the ground.

He pivoted to face the mouth of the alley. His numb fingers reached for gun jammed in his pocket. He released the safety.  
  
No one had ever killed a Shadow, but maybe the noise would scare it off.

The Shadow rounded the corner.

When Dean’s brother was eight, he’d bought one of those tacky 3-D illusion posters. It looked like some random pattern at first, but if you leaned in real close and then pulled back real slow, you’d see an image. A boat, according to Sammy. Dean hadn’t ever gotten the hang of the damn thing. His eyes would hurt, and something would jump out from the pattern, but he would lose it before he knew what he was seeing.

Looking at the Shadow felt like the moment right before he stopped seeing the 3-D, when his eyes were caught between seeing and not seeing. Only it was a thousand times worse. His brain kept trying to make sense of the Shadow and couldn’t, and it freaking _hurt_. Everything in him screamed that the Shadow was made outta some real bad hoodoo–that it was wrong in ways he didn't want to think about.

Dean spoke. “That's close enough. Follow me another step, and I shoot. You got that?”

The Shadow grew denser around the middle, like it was folding something around itself.

“That supposed to be a 'no'?”

_No shit, Sherlock_.

Dean almost dropped the gun.

The Shadow wasn’t talking.  
  
Dean was talking for it _in his own head_ , like a freaking schizo. He was losing his goddamned mind. Why else would he give the Shadow _that_ voice? “Look, man. As much fun as this is, I have a standing appointment with some Magic Fingers. What do you want? To kill me? Then kill me! Don’t just stand there waiting for me to freeze to death!”

The Shadow huffed, as if to say, _Dude!_

This–this was nuts. Here Dean was, imagining Sam’s voice, when he hadn’t spoken to his brother in years. When, most days, he tried to forget that he’d ever had a brother.

“You know what? I think I've had enough bullshit for one night. ” Dean squeezed the trigger on an exhale.

Sound left the alley.

One minute, Dean heard wind howling and banging against the dumpsters. Then, nothing. No noise. Dean couldn’t even hear himself breathing. The sound had fucking broke, like the world had been reduced to a crappy old electronic.

The bullet entered the Shadow’s middle and made ripples. _Did you really just shoot me_?

Dean stepped back. He wasn’t stupid; he hadn’t cornered himself. But he didn’t think he could outrun the Shadow, either. Not when his legs were half-frozen, and he was up against something that wasn’t even human.

The Shadow slid toward Dean.

Dean fired again.

_What the Hell? Can you stop shooting for, like, two seconds?_

“Shut it, Sammy.”

Those words came out clear as a bell.

The Shadow froze. _What did you just call me?_

Something moved behind the Shadow. Dean couldn't make it out. He opened his mouth to shout for help–

A low whine caught the air.

Dean shook his head, trying to dislodge the buzz in his ears. “You think you can tone that down?”

_Does it_ look _like I’m the one doing this?  
_

Dean dropped his gun and doubled over, head cradled in his hands. A glass bottle rolled toward him, then exploded like a firecracker. He heard the pickup’s windows burst. Glass shards fell like rain, landing on his skin and in his hair. A large piece cut the back of his hand.

Dean didn’t have the right to wish for anything. Still, he hoped that Sammy was doing alright. That he knew his fuck-up of a big brother loved him.

The sound stopped. The pain ended.

Dean opened his eyes. He was covered in broken glass and curled up on the ground, the pavement like ice against his skin. His muscles quivered like gelatin. He couldn’t quit shaking.

The Shadow was gone.

# **  
**

Dean woke up with a headache and a dry mouth. Cheap motel sheets itched against his skin. He rolled out of bed, his whole body feeling like a bruise, and stumbled into the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face and glanced at his reflection.

He looked blurry.

Dean frowned and wiped one hand across the mirror. His face still seemed wrong, like a picture from a camera that had gone just slightly out of focus. It had to be something weird with the glass. Except the objects behind him–the edge of a shower curtain, cracked wall tiles–looked just fine.

He grabbed his chin and turned his face to both sides, then touched his nose and cheekbones. They felt normal. He had that same curve at the tip of his nose, the same crease in his forehead. Was it his vision? Dean stepped back.  
  
Moving away from the mirror just made it worse.  
  
He glanced down at his hands. No. Fuck, no. They were out of focus and darker, somehow, like the light was skipping right over his skin.  
  
This wasn’t right. People didn’t just go blurry overnight! What could do something like this? The Shadow? How? It hadn’t freaking touched him! Still, a man meets a Shadow one night, then wakes up looking like a bad Polaroid? That couldn’t be a coincidence.

He didn’t bother checking out; he just headed straight to his '67 Impala.

The cold hit Dean like a fist. Shivering, he threw his duffel in the passenger seat and shrugged on his coat. He turned on the ignition. Thankfully, his baby started up with a purr despite the cold. He patted her dashboard and turned on the heat. “That’s my girl. You never let me down, not even when I’m turning into some kind of freak.”

Last night, he imagined Sam's voice. Today, he'd started seeing things. Maybe he wasn’t really changing. Maybe he was just losing it. Dean backed out the Impala, then turned her out of the parking lot. The roads had been plowed and salted, but he had to drive the speed limit to avoid skidding on black ice.

Normally, driving soothed him. He’d just get in his baby and hit the gas and for a brief time, he’d forget everything but the open road stretched in front of him, the sweet hum of the Impala’s engine and whatever tune was rocking from her cassette deck. Now, Dean’s head throbbed. His body ached. He was too aware that he’d only gotten a couple hours of sleep. And to put the icing on top of one terrible cake, his hands looked out of focus against the smooth lines of the steering wheel.

_Sammy_.

Also, he kept thinking about Sam. Why did Dean's brain keep bouncing back to his little brother? He didn’t even know where he was. California, maybe? He’d probably gone on to law school, but that didn’t take five years, and he could’ve moved anywhere after that. There was no one Dean could ask. His parents were dead, and he'd burned just about every bridge he’d ever had, plus a few more besides.

Dean hadn’t deleted Sammy’s number from his phone, but he didn’t know if the number was still good. People’s phone numbers changed. Even if the number was still good, was it selfish to use it? Sam hated him.  
  
This was stupid. Sam was fine. Dean had no reason to think any different, just a freaky-ass encounter with a Shadow and a weird itch in the back of his mind. That knowledge didn’t dislodge the worry chomping at his gut.

By the time he made it to Iowa, Dean just didn’t care. If Sam was in trouble, he needed to know. You didn’t abandon family, not even when they abandoned you first.

He pulled into a diner’s parking lot. The building was white and boxy with black piping and a sign announcing the best cherry pie in the state. Dean turned off the engine and fished his cell phone out of his jacket. He pressed three–it had been five years, and he still had Sammy on speed dial–and listened to the voicemail pick up. It was Sam’s voice, if tinny and oddly formal, and listening to it felt like clawing open an infected wound.

Dean waited for the beep. “Sammy, it’s Dean. Look, I know you don’t want to talk to me. You’re probably pissed that I’m still alive, and I get that, man. But Sammy, it's been a weird day, and I just...I need to know that you’re alright. Give me a call. Chew me out. Threaten to kill me again. Something.”

He shut his phone and closed his eyes. He could use a cup of joe, but he didn’t know how other people would react to seeing him like this. He wasn’t a _monster_ ; he didn’t think the village would come after him with pitchforks. Then again, he didn’t know this town. It might be the kind of place where a couple piercings earned you a beating, and Dean looked a hell of a lot weirder than your average punk.

Fuck it. Dean was tired and hungry, and he could take care of himself. He opened up his car door and stepped outside.

A bell on the diner’s door rang as he opened it. It was a generic-looking place with black booths lined up against the walls. A metal bar with stools stretched in front of what had once been an old-fashioned soda fountain. Now, there was just your normal soda dispenser–the diner favored Pepsi products–and a window revealing a small square of kitchen. Dean glimpsed a surly looking dude scrambling eggs.

A couple truckers were sitting in the booths. A middle-aged waitress in a blue skirt and hair net was setting a plate of hash browns in front of a sallow guy in a red flannel shirt. She looked up when the bell rang. Dean bit his lip and waited for a scream or a hairy eyeball. Something.

The waitress shook her head and turned back to Hashbrowns.

Dean blinked. Hadn’t she noticed? He brought his hand to his face and flexed his fingers. The creases and veins in his hand fuzzed out and bled into one another. The diner had plenty of light, but it refused to diffuse across his skin. It was official: He had Shadow VD. Maybe the waitress was half-blind?

Dean slid into a booth. He smiled as the waitress approached.

She walked by him without so much as a nod. Jesus. Freak or no, you don’t ignore a paying customer! Dean waited until she emerged from the kitchen, carrying a plain white mug and a coffee pot in the same hand, then gave her a wave. She walked over to his booth.

As someone who had spent his whole life on the road, Dean knew waitresses. He’d pegged this one as your standard Midwestern matron–friendly, inclined to mother, could be charmed for an extra large slice of pie. Those types greeted you with a smile, not stony indifference.

Dean pushed down a tinge of worry. He was good at figuring people out, but he wasn’t a mind reader. He had messed up, that’s all. This lady fell into the surly, no-nonsense, I’ve-been-doing-this-too-long-to-take-your-bullshit camp, and she wouldn’t acknowledge Dean until she was damn well ready.

At least it seemed like she was ready now. Dean glanced at her name tag and smiled. “Hello, Irene.”

She grabbed the ketchup from his table and carried it over to Hashbrowns.

“Hey!” Dean watched as the waitress poured one of the truckers a refill. “Have I gone freaking invisible?”

C’mon! He knew that people ignored what they didn’t want to see, but this was frigging ridiculous. When Irene passed his booth on the way back to the kitchen, Dean reached out and grabbed her arm.

She yelped and drew back, one hand falling to her chest. “My lord, boy. You scared me halfway to Hades!”

Dean peered into her face. It was square with a firm, thin mouth, but the expression was friendly. “You didn’t see me sitting here?”

“Give me a break, sugar. You couldn’t have been there more than a moment.” Irene’s eyes–brown, deep-set, lined with crows' feet–darted to the side.

It was something people did when they were lying, but Dean didn’t think that was it. Irene looked less like she was making up stories and more like she didn’t want to look at him.

“Uh, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. You think I can get some of the coffee? Maybe a slice of that famous cherry pie?”

“Sure thing, hon.” Irene seemed fascinated by a patch of air to the left of Dean’s ear. “You want that pie with Reddi Whip?”

“Sounds awesome.”

Irene nodded, eyes vacant, and headed back to the kitchen.

Dean rubbed his temples. It had to have been the frigging Shadow. It had pulled some sort of trick, and now Dean was half-invisible to waitresses. God, he hoped it this wasn’t going to happen with every woman from now on. He’d suspected that Shadows were evil sons of bitches, but he hadn’t taken them for cockblocks.

Dean watched as Irene finally came back out of the kitchen, then frowned when he realized her hands were empty. “C’mon! What’s it take to get some pie around here?”

“She has already forgotten you.”

Dean looked up to see a man walking toward his booth. He didn’t look like he belonged in a diner in the middle of bumfuck Iowa. For one thing, he probably didn’t drive a rig. He was wearing a black suit and a long beige trench coat. A cheap-looking, navy tie hung around his neck, the knot too loose at his throat. His hair stuck up at odd angles.  
  
Dean felt his chest compress. What was this dude, a Fed? Where had he even come from? Dean hadn’t seen him when he’d walked in, and he hadn’t heard the bell on the door ring. He must’ve been taking one long-ass shit to have been in the bathroom this whole time.

The man’s gaze locked on Dean. “You’re Dean Winchester.”

Suddenly, it was hard to swallow. There was something alien about the dude. Something almost as scary as those goddamn Shadows. “Nah, man. You got the wrong guy. The name’s Jack Bruce.”

“You called your brother, Sam Winchester, and left a message in which you identified yourself as Dean.”

What the Hell? How could this guy know that? Sammy couldn’t have known that Dean was gonna call, and even if he had, Dean’s message had lasted, what, thirty seconds? There was no way that call could have been traced.

“Dude, you’re creeping me out. I’m just passing through on my way to my sister’s wedding.” Dean stood up and slid out of the booth, his hand moving to the gun concealed beneath his shirt.

The man’s eyes didn’t follow Dean’s hands. Dean had run into plenty of cops, and reaching for your gun tended to piss them the Hell off. No way was this guy law enforcement.

So, what the fuck was he?

The man narrowed his eyes, which looked normal and blue but still seemed weird. “I know you remember your brother.”

Dean edged toward the door. “If I knew this Sam kid, I think I’d remember him. You don’t just forget your own brother.”

“Perhaps not, in normal circumstances. These are not normal circumstances.”

Dean grinned like a crazy person. “You’re not kidding.”

The bell above the door rang. Dean looked toward the door, keeping Not a Fed in his peripheral vision.

A chick walked into the diner. She was smoking, if a bit pale: thin, with long, dark brown hair and a black leather jacket. Some kind of hippie pendant necklace hung between her breasts, while dark jeans and killer boots added miles to legs that had already won the genetic lottery.

Dean gave them an appreciative leer, but then he got a good look at her face and it stopped him cold. Her features were nice enough, but there was something raw and ugly shifting beneath the surface.

She raised her eyebrows. “Looks like you got started without me, boys.”

Started what, exactly? He’d never seen any of these people before in his life!

The trench-coated man cleared his throat, which didn't help his voice any. “Meg. You have no business here.”

Meg smiled. “And that’s where you’re wrong, hot stuff. Your kind getting banished from the face of the Earth? Let’s just say it’s getting us all kinds of excited downstairs.”

The man raised his chin. “We have not been banished.”

Meg slid her thumbs through the loops on her jeans. “You so sure about that?” When the man didn’t respond, she shrugged. “Fine. Let’s conduct an experiment. How about I kill everyone in this joint, and we’ll see if any of your friends stop me. Whaddya say, Clarence?”

“Hey, honey.” Irene’s voice carried from the back of the diner. “I’m afraid you’re gonna have to order something if you want to stay in here.”

“Oh, look. A volunteer.” Meg lifted one hand, splaying out her fingers before closing them into a fist. She jerked her wrist to the left, and Dean heard the unmistakable crack of breaking bone. He spun around and saw Irene’s body crumple to the floor.

Holy shit! Had this Meg chick just snapped Irene’s neck with _the power of her mind_?

Someone screamed, the sound tapering into a desperate, liquid gurgle. It took a second for Dean to realize where it was coming from. Blood streamed from one of the truckers’ nostrils and mouth. It dripped from his beard and soaked into layers of cotton and flannel. He choked and slumped forward, his body seizing.

Sallow guy stood up and scuttled back, only to have his neck spin 180 degrees on his shoulders. His face froze in almost comic expression of horror, like a bad actor in a B movie, but his body smacked into the floor with a terrible, wet, _real_ sound.

Dean heard a scream from the kitchen and remembered the cook he’d seen earlier. Fuck, Meg had killed four people in–what?–fifteen seconds? _With her brain_?

Dean pulled out his gun and trained it on Meg. “What the Hell are you?”

She blinked, and her eyes were solid black. “Oooh. I guess that means Clarence hasn’t explained jack-shit. Typical. Angels just love to rock the mystery angle. Now, we demons may have a reputation for lying, but at least we don’t pussyfoot around bad news.”

Clarence straightened his already rigid posture. “I was not pussyfooting.”

Meg winked at him. “Big talk for such a limp little angel.”

“C’mon! You can’t expect me to believe you're a demon!” Dean's hands shook around his gun. His sense of reality was taking a beating, but he wasn’t ready to believe in freaking _angels and demons_.

Meg grinned and blew a long breath across her knuckles. “I’m not Tinkerbell. I don’t need you to believe in me to keep kicking ass. Now, Dean-o, how about we blow this popsicle joint? I’ll make it worth your while.”

“What? So you can kill me like you just killed all these people?” Dean had done some stupid shit in his life, but he wasn’t stupid enough to run off with some psycho chick!

“Hey, I was just making a point. If angel-boy here could have stopped me, he would have. Someone’s been a naughty boy, and now his daddy’s gone and taken away all his juice.”

“You’re wrong,” Clarence said.

“Am I? Because even if you decided to let me kill those people, we both know your buddies wouldn’t want my mitts all over this fine specimen.” Meg jabbed her thumb toward Dean. “But since any attempt at rescue would burn those cute, beady eyes right out of his skull, they seem to be holding back. Lucky me.”

Dean gave up on trying to understand. “Look, lady, I don’t what the Hell you’re talking about, but I think you've got the wrong idea. I’m not anything, y’know, _special_. I’m just a guy.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I must want the other blurry guy with knowledge of things that other humans don’t remember.”  
  
She walked toward Dean, and he didn't want to–he didn't want the jail time if this got traced back–but he had to shoot her. He tried to–except suddenly he couldn't get his fingers to _move_.  
  
Meg drew close and wrapped her fingers around the barrel of his gun, bringing the tip to her stomach. Her spare hand rose to tap his temple. “Don’t worry that sweet little skull of yours. I’m not here to hurt you. I’ll even tell you the score. You know, as a professional courtesy. Try getting that much from your little angel buddy.”

“She’s an abomination, Dean. Do not trust her.” Clarence’s frown deepened.

What was his game? Something told Dean that the dude was just as dangerous as Meg. So, why hadn’t he made a move? Was he waiting for something? If he were an angel–and no way was Dean buying that one–wasn’t he supposed to be, y’know, _good_? Like, the kind of thing that would stop a demon from murdering innocent people?

“Save the dirty talk for the bedroom, sweetheart,” Meg told Clarence. She refocused on Dean. “You wanna know why Heaven and Hell are getting all hot and bothered over some petty crook whose own daddy gave up on him? Whose brother hated him for getting his girlfriend all burnt to Hell?”

“My perky nipples?” Dean never told anyone any of that shit, and there was no way this bitch had access to his files. Were demons in law enforcement? It would explain a lot. Green River, for example.

Meg rose on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against Dean’s ear. Her skin felt warm and soft and normal. “You shouldn’t exist. You’re like a two-headed puppy, and everyone’s lining up to see the freak show.”

Dean drew back. “I shouldn’t exist? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? People aren’t meant to look this good?”

“Your brother has been erased from existence,” Clarence said. “Yet, you remember him. It has...drawn interest.”

Hold up. Sam had been frigging erased!?

Dean felt sick. Hollow.

Ever since their father had shoved a tiny, red-faced baby into Dean’s arms and told him to run like Hell out of their burning house, Sammy had been Dean’s responsibility. He’d fed him. Watched over him. Kept him out of trouble. Dean had gotten himself _in_ trouble fighting off bullies and stealing other people’s Christmas presents, just so Sammy could keep being a kid awhile longer.

The need to protect his brother was a part of Dean. Even when he’d been up to his eyeballs in debt to all the wrong people, he’d kept Sam out of it. Sammy came first. Sammy _always_ came first.

Now, some angel was telling him that Sam had been erased? What did that mean? _Murdered_. What else could ‘erased from existence’ mean? God, if their dad had still been around...Hell, Dean didn’t know what John Winchester would have done. He could almost hear his dad’s voice, asking why the fuck Dean hadn’t been there.

Dean’s tongue felt thick and dry. “Why? Sammy never put a toe out of line his whole goddamn life. He was a good kid. He was–”

“Yeah, I’m sure Sammy-boy was a real saint.” Meg fingered the pendant hanging from her necklace. “Your brother wasn’t killed. He was erased. Smudged out. Smeared. It looks like someone started the job with you, too, blur boy. It just didn’t take. Happen to know why that is?”

_Your brother wasn’t killed_.

Dean hated himself for the relief that coursed through him, because it wasn’t real. When weird people with superpowers told you that your brother had been erased from existence, they weren’t talking identity theft.

“What do you mean, ‘erased?’ Is he invisible now or something?” Dean asked.

“He’s not invisible,” Clarence said. “His absence is visible to the human eye.”

The fuck?

Dean needed to check in on Sammy and see what the Hell was going on. He didn’t know where Sam was...but Bobby Singer would! Jesus. Dean should have thought of him earlier.

Dean hadn’t spoken to him in years, but Bobby’d know about Sam. Bobby was a paranoid conspiracy theorist who eavesdropped on police scanners and thought that Sarah Palin was an alien plant, but he kept up on things. He’d probably compiled tons of info on the Shadows. Plus, Bobby knew Sam. Even if he didn’t know exactly where Sam was, he’d have a way to find out.

Bobby might shoot out Dean’s kneecaps, but Dean didn’t need those to ask questions.

“As much fun as this has been, I gotta go see a guy about a car.” Dean tensed, eyes darting between Meg and Clarence, as he prepared to break for the door. He knew it was a stupid move; he wasn’t going anywhere Meg didn’t want him to go. He just hoped that she hadn’t been lying when she’d said that she wasn’t going to ice him.

“Leaving is inadvisable,” Clarence said.

Dean tightened his grip on his handgun, trying to decide whether or not this so-called angel was threatening him. “And why’s that?”

Clarence didn’t move his eyes; he turned his whole head to redirect his light-beam stare from Dean to Meg. “The building is surrounded by hellhounds.”

As if on cue, Dean heard angry growling coming from outside, the snap of a jaw, a canine yelp.

The horror that struck Dean was instinctive and total. Because yeah, those weren’t freaking Yorkies. They sounded big. Huge. Jumbo grizzly-sized.

Meg rolled back her shoulders and slinked toward the door. “You expected me to face down an angel, even one like you, without back-up? Sorry, Clarence, but _my_ daddy raised me smarter than that. Now, if you don’t mind, I think it’s about time Dean and I got going. You know how it is: demons to see, people to do.”

Dean ignored her words, because actions spoke louder, and hers were screaming to high–uh, yeah. Shit. She was going to open the door and let the hellhounds inside.

Dean didn’t want the hellhounds inside.

“You will not take Dean Winchester.” Clarence pulled a short sword from underneath his trench coat, because Dean was in _Highlander_.

Meg reached the door. She stroked her fingers over the knob, smiling as something scratched the wood on the other side. “Hmmm, let me think about it. Here I am, with a dozen hellhounds. You have a sword and no way to call in back-up without destroying the object of our mutual treasure hunt. So, tell me, why exactly would I give up, now?”

“Because I am not out of juice.”

Clarence _freaking_ _zapped across the room._

One second, he was standing across from Dean. The next found him holding Meg. He pressed his sword against her back and palmed her forehead. Which, yeah. Not the best way to gank the bitch, if her laughter was any indication.

“You can’t kill me, can you Clarence? Don’t tell me you haven’t earned your wings.”

Dean wasn’t known for his brains, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to stick around and see how this one played out. He sprinted toward the kitchen door, and then pushed through. The short order cook’s body was splayed out in the middle of the floor, the handle of a cleaver rising from a bloody mess of flesh and apron in the middle of his chest. His eyes–dead, glassed over–stared straight through Dean.

Dean stepped over the corpse and headed toward the steel door with an exit sign. Except...fuck. The Impala was parked on the other side of the building. He’d have to outrun giant, evil dogs to get there, and Dean doubted Hell bred them fat and lazy.

Dean glanced around the room. Two metal strips were on the wall above what looked like a prep station. They held up about a dozen cheap chef’s knives, along with a couple can openers and serrated steak knives. Dean couldn’t see a knife doing much good, but he wasn’t gonna count on getting a chance to reload his gun, and a crappy blade had to be better than going unarmed.

His eyes fell on a couple packages of Steak-umms thawing on the counter. Maybe he could chuck a couple pieces at the dogs and hope they wanted beef more than they wanted him? It worked in the movies.

Which meant that it was probably fake Hollywood bullshit.

He heard glass break in the other room, followed by growls and the scratch-slide of clawed animals running too fast on tile. There was a terrified whine, like that of a kicked puppy, and then Clarence’s voice boomed through the air. “Use salt, Dean!”

Salt? _Salt_? What was he supposed to do, see if the hellhounds shriveled like slugs? Dean scanned the room. There was a canister of Morton’s on one of the counters and probably some more in the cabinets, unless the low-sodium craze had reached middle America’s diners, in which case, fuck it, Dean didn’t want to live anymore.

The kitchen door swung open, revealing...nothing.

Dean blinked at the empty space. He’d been expecting some hound of the Baskervilles deal, with glowing red eyes and a dripping maw filled with fangs. Maybe hellhounds were too freaking dumb to walk through an open door when they saw one?

He stepped toward the counter, only to hear a low growl coming from the doorway. Was the hellhound standing at some weird angle where it could see Dean, but he couldn’t see it?

He could still hear noise coming from the dining room. Dogs, mostly, but also Meg laughing or making these breathy little grunts. He didn’t want to think too hard about what was going on in there, but maybe Clarence was keeping the hellhounds distracted...

Then, _shit_ , the cook’s corpse moved.

Its far hand slid two inches across the floor, moving toward its torso. Small pink bubbles frothed from its mouth as its bloody chest depressed, like a heavy weight had settled there.

No. Just no. Angels, demons and hellhounds were one thing, but Dean wasn't ready to deal with zombies. He’d _never_ be ready to deal with zombies.

The body’s chest moved again. Twin red blobs the size of dinner plates formed on the floor between Dean and the corpse. Well, two big blobs with smaller blobs in front and to the sides of them. Dean wasn’t an expert or anything, but he’d been around plenty of blood. Blood flowed, splattered, gushed or seeped through bandages; it didn’t just _appear_.

Humid air puffed against Dean’s legs, and he smelled something damp and putrid.

“You've got to be kidding me.”

The blobs were paw prints.

Paw prints from an invisible dog the size of a Volkswagen.

“Uh, hey, doggie,” Dean said. “Yeah, that’s a good boy. You’re a vicious thing, ain’t ya? Bet Michael Vick would get a load outta you...”

The hellhound snarled, its invisible teeth gnashing together.

Dean took a step back toward the exit, his boots slipping on the linoleum. He held up his hands, but kept firm grips on his gun and knife. One bite from this thing would probably chomp him in two.

“Not a Vick fan? Hey, I can’t blame you. It takes a total dick to kill a bunch of dogs.”

The hellhound growled. New prints appeared on the floor as it approached Dean, each mark fainter than the last. It made a deep, angry noise, and the paw prints grew wider, like it was bracing itself for a pounce.

Dean knew a one-chance scenario when he saw it. He brought the gun down and aimed a bullet between and above the nearest set of paw prints.

There was a high-pitched, animal scream. The hellhound slipped and scrambled, its claws tearing strips from the linoleum.

_Shit_.

For all Dean knew, he’d shot it in the ear or something.

He fired again.

Something slammed into Dean’s chest, propelling him into the door. Sharp claws dug into his shoulders. Dean jabbed forward with the knife, driving it somewhere into the air above his head.

Hot breath moved across his face, and Dean felt something warm soak into his shirt. The hellhound twitched and made a wet, muffled noise. Its chest rattled. Then, nothing.

It was dead.  
  
“Guess this makes me a total dick.”

The hellhound’s body was huge and heavy, but it didn’t quite have him pinned. Dean kicked around, ignoring the pain in his shoulders as he tried to shove the thing off his chest. He did not want to be trapped when the other hellhounds arrived at the prom! Another hard push, and Dean was able to pull his legs free. He sat against the door for a long second, breathing hard.

Clarence walked into the kitchen. Blood streamed from a hairline cut on one side of his face, and his trench coat and sword were splattered red. He looked at Dean’s feet, where an invisible dog was lying dead in a puddle of its own blood. “You should not have ignored my instructions. Hellhounds cannot pass over salt.”

Dean glared at him, wondering what the Hell that was supposed to mean. “Thanks for the tip.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sarcasm was clearly lost on the dude.

“Meg?” Dean rose to his feet and gave his shoulders a quick roll.

He was bleeding where the hellhound had nailed him, but the damage didn’t feel too bad. No sliced arteries or muscles or anything, though he was gonna be a walking bruise in a couple of hours.

Clarence tilted his head to one side. “I failed to kill the demon, but she has retreated. I believe that she is waiting outside with her remaining hellhounds.”

“Remaining?”

“I killed seven and fatally wounded two,” Clarence said, like it was freaking nothing. “A hellhound never loses a scent; it will not be safe for you until they are destroyed.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “We kill the hellhounds, and I’m safe?”

Clarence shifted his weight. “You will be safe from these hellhounds.”

“Oh,” Dean said. “Awesome.”

###  



	2. Chapter 2

  


“So, you’re an angel?” Dean asked, as he and Clarence crept around the side of the diner. Well, Dean crept. Clarence strode along like it was a day at the freaking zoo, albeit one hosting some geekboy reenactment with swords.

“The hellhounds have your scent; there is no point in whispering. And yes, I’m an angel. I already told you that I was."

Dean eyeballed Clarence’s blood-spattered trench coat. When he was nineteen or so, he’d spent a couple days in Miami, most of it in bed with this lifeguard who’d taken him back to her place. Tessa, maybe? Carlisa? She’d been cute as a button and freaky as shit, and she’d collected angels. Figurines, stuffed animals, ornaments. They crowded every shelf in her bedroom, their creepy-ass eyes _watching_ as Dean and–maybe it’d been _Risa_ , yeah, Risa sounded right–committed every sin they could think of on her sunshine-yellow sheets.

A lot of them looked like cartoon kids, with stupid teardrops for eyes and even stupider pastel robes. Others looked older and were hugging lambs and playing harps and doing other angel-things. Some were teddy bears. Not one of them had been soaked in blood and carrying a sword.

Clarence sure as Hell didn’t _look_ like an angel.

“Shouldn’t you have a halo or wings or something?”

“I have wings.” Clarence sounded disgruntled, like it was hella rude for Dean to ask. Maybe wings were like angels’ dicks or something? Dean didn’t want to make an angel whip out his dick. Still. _Wings_.

Dean glanced at Clarence’s back, just in case something had sprouted there. “I’m not seeing them, dude.”

“My wings are not visible on this plane, and making them so would damage you. Few humans can comprehend angels in their true form, and you are not one of them.”

A shadow crossed Clarence’s face, like it was Dean’s fault that he was too stupid to _comprehend_ angel wings. Because seeing a bunch of feathers would–what?–blow his mind? Bullcrap! He’d survived that weekend with Lisa Braeden (now that was a chick whose name you couldn’t forget). If anything was ever gonna explode Dean’s brain, it would’ve been Gumby Girl.

Maybe he’d track down Lisa if he survived the next ten minutes, and his case of the blurs cleared up.

Clarence paused. “I didn’t mean to imply that you’re...deficient, only that seeing an angel outside of its vessel would overwhelm you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I see you outside of your vessel–whatever that is–and I sob like a twelve-year-old girl at a Bieber concert?” Dean pressed his thumb against the blade of his knife, testing its sharpness. It wasn’t totally dull, and that was the best he could say about it.

“You would not weep. Your eyes would be consumed by divine fire.” Clarence stopped at the corner of the diner, staring through the building where it blocked his view to the parking lot. “You will have to take it on faith that I am who I say I am: Castiel, an angel of the Lord.”

Castiel? Why had Meg said Clarence? Oh, yeah. The angel from that stupid-ass Christmas movie, where the world's biggest pushover gets to see the parallel, weirdo universe where he didn't exist, which was somehow Hell on Earth because there were nightclubs and a sexy librarian.

Hold up.

Castiel hadn’t answered a question that Dean had asked. He’d answered a question Dean had _thought_ about asking.

“Stay out of my head!”

Castiel turned his head to look at him, and his gaze was so weird, so alien, that Dean found himself taking a step back. “I will try not to make you uncomfortable,” he said, in a tone that mostly sounded like a fuck-you.

Yeah, because there was nothing more comforting than a mind-reader carrying a freaking sword. Shit. Castiel probably heard that.

“Great. That’s great. What were you saying about a ‘true form?’ And, no offense, but aren’t angels supposed to be the good guys?  Why’d you let Meg kill everyone?” Dean was starting to shiver again, but Precious Moments didn’t seem to notice.

Castiel raised his gaze to the sky. Was he talking to someone up there? “I am not functioning at full capacity. Saving those people would have compromised my ability to save you, as does answering these incessant questions.”

“You coulda just told me to shudup,” Dean mumbled.  
  
Castiel still hadn’t answered his first question. Maybe he was embarrassed by his true form? Like he was a teddy bear with wings?

“This body is a vessel.”

Dean waited for Castiel to say something else, but it looked like he just wanted to stare at the clouds. Which was fine and all, except that Dean needed to get to his baby before he froze his nuts off, and a psycho demon bitch had hell-poodles blocking the way. He carried a gun and a knife, plus a salt shaker jammed into his front pocket, but damned if he knew how to shoot, stab or, uh, salt things he couldn’t see.

“Something’s wrong. The hellhounds should have attacked by now.” Castiel walked around the corner of the building.

Hellhounds not attacking didn’t sound so bad to Dean, but what did he know? He followed Castiel.

The Impala looked fine, thank God, though the pavement around her was damp, and it wasn't warm enough for any ice to have melted.

Castiel walked to one of the patches and crouched, touching his fingers to the darkened pavement. “The hellhounds have been destroyed.”

Dean approached one of the wet spots. He stuck his boot out and felt something solid, but with some give to it. A body. That was definitely a body. A tightness in Dean's chest gave out, and he took in a long, shaky breath. “What happened?”

“Something killed them.” Castiel stood up. A normal person would have wiped his hand on his ruined coat. He let it hang at his side, invisible blood and all.

“I got that part. What _kind_ of thing? Another angel?”

“No.” Castiel tucked his sword somewhere underneath his trench coat.

“Christ.” Dean gave the hellhound corpse a good kick. “Got any idea what did? Are demons into killing their own pets, or is there something else I gotta worry about? Ghouls? Goblins? Robert Pattinson?”

Something squished under his foot. He pulled back and scraped his boot against the pavement. Dean wasn’t tracking guts into his baby, even if they were invisible.

Castiel’s mouth fell open, like he was going to answer. Then, something in the angel’s face closed off. “We need to go.”

He wasn’t asking. Which was fine, except that Dean didn’t _do_ orders anymore.

“We? I hope you don’t think we’re leaving together. One, I don’t swing that way. Two, you can’t just drop shit like angels and demons on a guy, then expect him to let you into his car! I’m gonna need some kind of explanation. What the Hell is going on? Why were those things after me? What killed them? What’s this shit about Sammy getting erased?”

The wind picked up, biting into Dean’s skin.

Castiel stepped forward, his gaze locked on Dean’s face. “The thing that killed the hellhounds is still here. It wants to get you alone, and I don’t know what will happen to you if it does.”

Dean glared straight back. “You gonna tell me what it is?”

Castiel moved closer and tilted his head, bringing his face way too close to Dean’s. “I’m offering protection. Things will go better for you if you accept.”

Dean stood his ground. “What about Irene? Or those other guys? What about their _protection_? ”

“I told you–”

“Yeah, you said that you couldn’t save us all, and you chose to save me. Why me? What's it got to do with Sam?”

Castiel stared at Dean like he was a bug he wouldn’t mind squashing. His silence stretched long and uncomfortable before breaking with a low rumble. “This place is vulnerable. We can’t speak freely.”

He raised his hand to Dean’s face. Two fingers touched his temple. Castiel’s skin felt sticky, which was hella gross, but not inhuman. But then something–power, yeah, but Dean didn’t know if he could call it electricity–pulsed out from his finger pads, and Dean was staring at a familiar front dash.

“Dude! Did you just teleport us? To my car?”

“I transported us, if that’s what you mean.” Castiel sat shotgun, his straight spine a couple inches from the back of the passenger seat. His trench coat looked clean and pressed. “I suggest that you drive.”

“It was three freaking feet! We could’ve walked! Jesus!” Dean slapped a hand against the steering well. His insides felt wrong, like Scottie here had rematerialized his intestines into pretzels.

“You would have argued. This was more efficient.” Castiel frowned out the front window. “Drive, Dean. _Now_.”

“Backseat driving makes you a dick.” Dean told him, before following Castiel’s gaze. “Shit.” He fumbled with the keys, hands shaking, then turned on the ignition and squealed out of the parking lot. The Impala hit black ice when he pulled out. The wheels lost traction, but Dean got the steering under control before he swerved too far into the wrong lane.

“Sonovabitch,” Dean said, as the empty road stretched between his car and the diner. He glanced sidelong at Castiel, who was peering over the dashboard with intense concentration. “Next time you want me to move, try telling me that a Shadow’s riding my ass.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

Castiel didn’t remove his eyes from the road.

#

Dean felt freaking wrecked.

His bones ached. The scratches on his chest burned like a motherfucker. He couldn’t stop shaking. He’d spent the last half hour driving like he was on the goddamn Autobahn, trying to put distance between himself and that fucking diner. His nerves were only getting shakier. He needed a drink. He needed Castiel to _fucking spill_.

“You need to calm down,” Castiel said, like Dean could flip a switch and enter a Zen state.

“Fuck you. I need answers. That’s what I need.”

“You’re also dehydrated.”

“Dehydrated? I’ve been screwed over by a Shadow. My brother no longer exists. And you’re telling me you can’t tell me nothing because I'm _dehydrated_!?”

A Honda Civic blared its horn as the Impala made a kamikaze pass. Dean gave its driver the finger and pressed harder on the accelerator.

Castiel gave Dean a good, long stare. Dean had known the guy an hour, tops, and he was already sick of all the goddamn staring.

“You won’t be receptive.” Castiel spoke like he was stating a freaking absolute.

What the Hell did Castiel know? Dean was fucking receptive as shit. “Yeah? Fine, then. We’ll stop. How about a motel?”

“A motel room will suffice,” Castiel said, after a long pause that grated on each and every one of Dean’s nerves. “But we'll need salt and bottled water.”

They ended up pulling into a 7-11, where Castiel insisted that Dean remain in the car, and Dean snapped that Castiel had better get him some beer and candy. Castiel gave him a disapproving look and flickered in and out of sight, returning with several canisters of salt, sidewalk chalk, a gallon of water and a bag of peanut M&Ms. It seemed like the sort of thing he could have done any old time.

“You pay for any of that?” Dean asked.

“No,” Castiel said, cementing Dean’s belief that the angel wasn’t exactly on the up-and-up.

After twenty minutes spent trying to convince the receptionist he was really there, Dean checked himself and an angel into the Shamrock Motel, with its puke-green carpeting and fading clover-patterned wallpaper. He’d gotten a room with two beds. The one closest to the door was now covered in crap: Dean’s duffel bag, jacket and gun; Castiel’s salt canisters and water jug.

Dean sat on the bed farthest from the door, watching Castiel channel Michelangelo. At least it was just chalk, though Dean wouldn’t have cared if Castiel had gone for spray paint or Sharpie, since he hadn’t paid for the room with a real credit card. Dean didn’t _have_ a real credit card.

Castiel stopped chalking up the ceiling and stepped down from his chair. “The mark I’ve made is called a devil’s trap. If a demon steps inside it, it won’t be able to leave until one of its lines is broken. Commit it to memory.”

Dean raised his eyes to the trap. It was a five-pointed star set in a circle, with some kind of calligraphy drawn between the points. “Fine, I’ve trapped a demon with your girly drawing. How do I kill it?”

Dean crushed another M&M between his molars and reached for the motel stationary. If he drew the trap a couple times, he’d remember it.

“You won’t be able to kill them, though an exorcism will force the demon back to Hell.”

“Exorcisms? You’ve got be shitting me.”

Castiel surveyed his work for a moment and must’ve been happy enough with it, because he took a canister of salt off the bed, opened it and began pouring its contents in a straight line along the bottom of the door. “Exorcisms are performed in Latin.”

Yeah, like that made it so much better. “This is America. Don’t demons speak English?”

“They may speak many languages, but only a few have the power to banish them. You must learn Latin or at least memorize the exorcisms.”

Dean was beginning to have serious doubts about the dude. Maybe it would’ve been smarter to get his ass to Bobby’s straight away and demand answers from Castiel there. Bobby had more guns that Dean. Hell, he probably had cannons.

Apparently the front door had gotten enough sodium; Castiel walked over to the room’s lone window and used salt to line its bottom edge. Dean looked over his shoulder to keep angel boy in his line of sight.

“Why salt?” Dean asked. “Are demons watching their blood pressure?”

“Salt is a purifying substance. I have also woven Enochian sigils into the walls. That is a protection that only I can provide. The salt you can do yourself.”

What the Hell was Enochian? Fuck it, since Dean couldn’t use it anyhow.

“Anything else?”

Castiel returned to the spare bed and picked up the water. He produced a rosary from his trench coat, put it in the jug and let it fall to the bottom.

“Iron weapons are the most effective, saying the word ‘ _Christo_ ’ forces demons to reveal themselves, and holy water burns their skin. But older demons can prove...resistant.”

“Will any of this keep out a Shadow?”

“No. Shadows are unnatural and do not respond to natural law.” Castiel replaced the cap on the water and set it back on the bed. “I don’t believe there is any way for a human to stop one.”

 _Fucking awesome_.

Dean didn’t know if he could deal with this crap, anymore. Whatever adrenaline he’d used to survive the fight had long since left, and his growling stomach and pounding head were reminding him that peanut M&M’s weren’t a real meal.

Castiel suddenly stood too close. “I believe this room is as secure as it is in my power to make it.”

Dean gestured to the opposite bed. Castiel’s eyes followed the movement, but he remained standing where he was. He wasn’t that tall, but in his current position, he towered over Dean. Which was probably why he was doing it. It figured–any angel dumb enough to look out for Dean had to be a dick.

Castiel stepped back. He still didn’t sit down. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

Dean _really_ fucking wanted a drink. “Tell me what’s up with Sammy.”

“No. The story begins with angels. Your brother comes later.” Castiel mouthed the words like he wasn’t quite sure about them. “As I explained before, angels cannot appear on Earth as they appear in Heaven. Only a few humans can withstand the sight and sound of our Grace. These humans are usually marked in some way. They are prophets or saints. Most often, they are vessels.”

“Vessels?”

“When angels are required to appear on Earth, we seek out a vessel–a human with the ability to house our Grace.”

Dean took in a sharp breath, horrified. “You mean you’re possessing some poor bastard?”

He got demon possession. Demons were _demons_. They were supposed to be evil. But angels? Weren’t they supposed to hug lambs and sing carols? It didn’t seem right. Humans couldn’t so much as covet an ass without getting Hell, but an angel could _steal your body_?

He’d known that angels were bad news. He’d fucking called it.

Castiel’s voice sharpened. “This body belonged to a religious man. A believer. He prayed for this.”

Dean stood up and glared down at Castiel. “Let me get this straight; this dude you’re wearing got down on his knees and said, ‘As I lay myself to sleep, I pray for some angel to come down and take over my body?'”

Castiel wasn’t even looking at Dean anymore. He was just–looking. “Angels cannot choose any human. There are bloodlines. My vessel’s mother had the potential to contain me, as does his child, and so will her children and grandchildren. I could not choose another human, even one designed for another angel, without damaging it. Even so, we must ask permission of our hosts, and they must grant it.”

Humans were ‘its?’ What was Earth, then? AngelGap?

“You’re telling me some kid’s dad abandoned his family to go play angel condom? Christ. This just gets better and better.”

Dean had Castiel’s full attention now, and he felt _small_ , like an ant beneath some asshole kid’s magnifying glass. Only Castiel wasn’t the asshole; he was the light. All he had to do was focus just right and Dean–Dean was fucking _done_.

“Don’t blaspheme. My vessel did what he thought was right. What God required of him.”

Dean licked his lips. “Okay. Your vessel wanted this. Don’t blaspheme. I got it.”

Castiel’s expression softened, or at least lost whatever immense quality it had held two seconds earlier. “I acquired a vessel to perform a task on Earth. So, I was not affected by what came. As far as I know, I'm the only one who wasn't. Our vessels have been damaged. Angels cannot appear to humans wearing anything but their true forms.”

Shit. Hadn’t Castiel said that his vessel had a kid? And that kid was a potential vessel?

“Claire Novak was among the lost.” Castiel sounded like he actually regretted it, like he wasn’t wearing her dad like a skin sweater. “I have been trying to uncover who is responsible. I hope it’s not irreversible.”

Yeah, of course the angels wanted their meat suits back. Their closets had been raided, and streaking across Earth would make all the human cattle lose their eyeballs. That would ruin all the lamb-hugging harp-playing imagery Heaven had been paying their PR people to dish out for the last fucking forever.

Dean grimaced. “When did all of this go down?”

“About a year ago, according to your method of counting time.”

Dean tried to think back to last winter. He’d been in New England, trying to turn his life around _again_. He’d been working as a mechanic at a local place. Nothing fancy, but they got a lot of older models, so you didn’t have to do everything on computers. Of course, then he’d drunk too much and made some bad bets and been caught lifting cash from the register. There was still a warrant out for Keith Moon in Massachusetts.

Dean lost his ability to breathe. “The Shadows?”

“Yes.”

That was just–it was freaking nuts. Every single person who could’ve been an angel condom had been turned into a Shadow? Some of those Shadows were kids! _Families_. Jesus.

The Shadow in the alley had been a person. Or something that used to be a person.

Dean blinked down at his hands, like that would make them come into sharper focus. “What happened to your vessels, exactly, to make them Shadows? What does this have to do with me and Sam?”

“We should go,” Castiel said. When Dean looked up at him, his face was pinched and his gaze was distant.

“We just got here!”

“The Shadow followed us. It's a threat, no matter who it used to be.”

“Next time, say that part first.” Dean grabbed his jacket and gun. He’d have to run for the car. Hopefully, the Shadow hadn’t been his high school’s track star.

The Shadow came through the door. It moved right over the salt and knocked over the chair Castiel had left by the doorway. It grabbed Dean by the neck and squeezed.

Dean dropped his gun. He gasped and clawed at the thing holding him, but it was useless. It hurt. The Shadow felt cold and wrong. Every molecule in Dean’s body was screaming that he was touching something that shouldn’t exist–

The Shadow spun Dean around and pulled him against itself.

 _Back off_.

God, it did sound like Sammy. But it couldn’t be, not when Dean wasn’t a Shadow!

Castiel appeared in Dean’s line of vision, his form surrounded by blinking black spots. He looked furious. His sword was in his hand. “Release him now, before you kill him.”

 _I won't_.

A sharp line of pain drew down Dean’s arm. Blood streamed down his skin.

The Shadow stroked Dean’s bloody arm, which was all kinds of uncomfortable. _Trust me, Dean_.

Dean choked.

The room glowed.

Castiel’s eyes widened. His edges weren’t lining up, exactly, like he was caught in some kind of motion effect. Light burst out around him, or from him, and then he was moving back, getting pushed–

The light vanished, and Castiel was gone.

 ###


	3. Chapter 3

The Shadow released Dean. _You might want to get a towel._

Dean stumbled back, one hand flying to his injured arm. He was bleeding _fuzzy._ The red flared out at the edges, like it’d been caught on old film.

The Shadow had drawn something on the wall–a circle with a zigzag thing in the middle and weird symbols around the perimeter. It dripped red. The Shadow had drawn the symbol with Dean’s blood.

“What the Hell did you do?” Speaking hurt Dean’s throat.

 _It’s an Enochian sigil that banishes angels. Um, I think._ The Shadow seemed nervous. _Uh, sorry about the cut. It has to be drawn in human blood or it won’t work, and I don’t think mine counts anymore._

Dean squinted at the Shadow. It looked different than it had in the alley. It was still blatantly, horribly _other_ , but now it appeared humanoid. Dean could make out a head and limbs, though the hands looked like extra scary mittens, and it didn’t have details like hair or nails or facial features.

It stepped closer.

“Whoa! Stay back!”

 _Dean! It’s okay! I’m not going to hurt you!_ The Shadow raised its hands.

“I’m just supposed to believe that? You cut me! I don’t know if you’ve noticed, dude, but you kinda screwed me over that last time, too. I look like an extra from _The Room_!”

The Shadow’s broad, shoulder-like things slumped. _I didn’t know that would happen, honest. I just wanted to talk to you_.

“Yeah? Why me, then?”

 _Why do you think, Dean?_ The Shadow somehow conveyed bitterness and misery, even without a face.

“Don’t give me that! I have no idea what to think! First, you blurrify me. Then, some weirdo tells me he’s an angel and that Shadows are messed-up angel meat suits. You think I’m supposed to just know what’s going on? How the Hell could I?”

The Shadow’s stolen voice took on a pleading note. _Look, I don’t know everything, either. It’s not like anyone bothered to explain it to us, and we can’t talk to people. No one remembers who we were. No one remembers that we were ever anything but Shadows._

The Shadow inched forward.

“I said stay back!” Dean's gun was on the floor. Even if he could reach it, it would hurt the Shadow about as much as a pair of pink pompoms. Holy water, maybe? Castiel said that nothing Dean could do would stop a Shadow, but if the Shadow didn’t know that, Dean might stand a chance.

The holy water was still on the bed closest to the door. Dean made a quick dash, grabbed it and brandished the gallon jug at the Shadow. Blood ran out from under his sleeve, plopping onto the plastic jug and carpet.

_Holy water? Really?_

“It was worth a try!” Especially since Dean’s next move was gonna involve pelting it with M&Ms and hoping the Shadow had a peanut allergy.

_Can you at least threaten me with your good arm? I really don’t want to watch you bleed to death._

“Maybe you should have thought about that before you sliced me!”

_Dean, I’m sorry about doing this to you. I really am. It’s just, you know, I saw you. I didn’t think. I just followed, and then it was like you could hear me, and no one else has done that, Dean. No one! I mean, you’re doing it now, aren’t you? You actually hear my voice._

“No,” Dean said. “I don’t. I’m just going crazy or something. I’m not hearing you. I’m imagining my kid brother being a bitch.”

A pause– _Jerk_.

Dean’s heart didn’t skip a beat; it fucking froze. “Come again?”

 _You called me a bitch, so I called you a jerk_. The Shadow sounded earnest. If it had eyes, they’d probably be doing Sam’s puppy thing. That didn’t make it Sam. Shadows could be mind readers or something. Angels weren’t the nicest things in the world. Maybe their vessels were dicks, too.

Dean remembered Castiel’s vessel. He didn’t look all that old; his daughter probably wasn’t even a teenager. What the Hell could a little girl have done to deserve getting Shadowfied?

 _Dude, I know this has got to be hard, but you’re not really this dense_ _,_ right?

Dean stared at the Shadow, the pieces fitting together like the world’s most fucked-up jigsaw puzzle: Castiel telling him that Sam had been erased from existence, along with a bunch of other people; Castiel saying that Dean had drawn interest, not because of his weird condition, but because he remembered his brother; Meg telling him that he shouldn’t exist.

He tried to see his brother in the Shadow. His eyes kept trying to slide right off, but if he forced it, if he really looked...the Shadow didn’t have a face, but it had the impression of one, and the proportions were like Sammy’s. It held itself right. Shit, Dean should’ve known just from its height.

Dean’s knees felt weak. He stepped back until his legs hit the bed, and then he sunk down. The holy water slipped from his fingers and thudded on the carpet. Liquid glugged from its spout and soaked his boots.

 _Dean?_ The Shadow sounded small and unsure.

He hadn’t seen Sammy in five years, and now he was this _thing_. It was terrible. It was fucked up. And some small, sick part of Dean had never been so goddamn happy.  
  
"Sammy?"

 _Dude, don’t call me Sammy._ The Shadow did the closest thing it could to a grin. _You know what? I don’t even care. It’s been over a year since anyone’s said my name. A whole year, Dean!_

Sammy had been a Shadow for over a year.

What had he been doing all this time?

 _Dude, you okay? You really should put pressure on that arm._ Shadow-Sam hovered, looking nervous. _I just found you. I’d kinda like you to stay alive_.

Dean wasn’t a complete idiot–he knew that Sam hadn’t come to him out of trust or forgiveness. Sam was here because he couldn’t talk to anyone but Dean, the one person he would’ve paid money to never lay eyes on again. It was a sick joke. A frigging _farce_.

“It’s not the arm. It’s just a lot to take in. Yesterday, I went to a bar. Now, I’m blurry, my brother’s a Shadow, and angels and demons are after me.” Dean chewed his lip. “What were you doing in Illinois? Were you trying to find me?”

Sam ducked his head, confirming what Dean had already known. _I had no reason to think you’d recognize me. No one else has. My friends, my coworkers, my girlfriend–no one remembers me. I’m not on any public records. All my stuff disappeared when I did._ Sam raised one hand to his head, like he were running non-existent fingers through non-existent hair. _I can’t even tell you what it’s been like._

Dean rose on unsteady legs and walked into the bathroom. He took off his over-shirt, then grabbed a thin, off-white towel and wound it around his arm. “Can you tell me what happened? How did you know that angel-banishing thing?” Dean walked over to his duffel and pulled out another shirt. He put it on and rolled up one sleeve to help hold the towel in place.

 _Uh, about that. The sigil sends angels away, but it can’t keep them gone_. _We should probably leave before that angel comes back._

Dean hesitated. Castiel had been creepy, and no way did Dean trust him, but he’d saved him from Meg and her hellhounds. He remembered the angel's low voice, growling that Sam was a danger to him. He'd been right, though probably in a different way than he'd meant.

But this was Sam, and if Sam thought avoiding angels was a good idea, Dean wasn’t going to hang around waiting for the return of Sir Stares-A-Lot.

“Any idea where we should go?” Dean asked.

_Not really. Where were you headed before this?_

“Bobby’s, actually.”

 _You still talk to Bobby?_ Sam didn’t have eyebrows, but Dean could imagine some rising.

“Talk? No, we don’t talk.” Dean put on his jacket, bloody towel and all, and stuffed his gun in the pocket. “Bobby hates me. I was just hoping he’d shoot me in the knee caps first, so I’d still have a couple seconds to ask about you.”

 _I thought of Bobby, too._ Sam said. _I went to his house._

“Yeah?” Dean shoved his M&Ms and Castiel’s anti-demon junk into his duffel with his good arm.

_Dean, he took one look at me and shot me full of rock salt._

“Rock salt? Why would he shoot you with rock salt?” Salt–that was an anti-demon thing. “Bobby knows? I knew he read a lot of weird books, but I thought it was some sort of, uh, hobby.”

Sam shrugged. _I thought he was just, uh, eccentric, too. But those books in his house? They’re about demons, angels, monsters–you name it._

“I guess that settles it,” Dean said. “We’re visiting Bobby. Let’s just hope he shoots you and not me.”

_Gee, thanks._

Dean picked up the duffel. The cuts on his arm and chest burned, and, for a second, the room swung around him.

It was too damn much.

Dean couldn’t get himself straightened out when he was dealing with human crap like whiskey and gambling. How could he stop whatever was happening to him, much less fix Sam? How could he face Bobby–someone who had tried to help him, once, before Dean made it 100 percent clear that he wasn’t worth helping?

Meg was still out there, and she probably had friends. Castiel had acted like he was teaching Dean to survive, but he’d really been keeping Dean away from Sam. Sam was only here because Dean could hear him–this wasn't sappy Lifetime crap. Dean was totally alone.

That wasn’t new. It wasn’t even the first time he’d felt the full weight of it. It was just that Dean couldn’t fuck this one up, and he didn’t know how to do anything else.

 _Dean? Are you okay? We don’t have to drive all the way to Bobby’s tonight. We could stop at another motel_.

Dean rustled up a grin. “Don’t worry about it, Sammy. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

He pushed half-past, half-through Sam (and God it felt terrible, like every cell in his body had been touched by something cold and oily and sick) and then he was outside, a bitter night wind slapping across his skin.

 #

 _It's been awhile since I've seen her. She sounds different._ Sam waved at the Impala's dashboard. _I can't put my finger on it_.

“Like you said, it's been awhile.” Dean sighed when Sam settled back into his seat. He couldn't see a frown, but he knew Sam was sporting one. “I rebuilt her, Sammy. From the ground up. Some asshole trucker fell asleep at the wheel. Plowed right into her side. They said it was a miracle I survived.”

 _There's nothing in the vents,_ Sam said, after a long pause.

“Well, no? There ain't supposed to be.”

_There used to be legos._

Maybe going Shadow had messed with Sam's head, because John Winchester would have ripped them both new assholes if he'd heard that kind of racket every time he drove. He hadn't let them eat or drink in her, either, though Dean hadn't stuck to those rules. As long as his baby didn't end up smelling like bologna and no one stained the upholstery, it didn't bother him.

Dean pulled out the first tape he found– _Pyromania_ –and put the A side in the Impala’s cassette deck. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as the melody picked up. This was good. Dean fucking needed this. His car, his music, his brother in the front passenger seat.

_Do we really have to listen to this?_

Sam always had whined about Dean’s music. Christ, if Dean could forget that, who knew what else he’d blocked out? Five years was a long-ass time. Sam would’ve changed as a _person_ , even before this Shadowfication crap.

“You know the rules, Sammy! Driver picks the music; shotgun shut his cake hole.” Dean turned to grin at Sam and wished that he hadn’t. Seeing the Shadow hadn’t become any easier now that he knew it was his brother. If anything, it made it worse, because he looked longer and harder trying to see Sam in the big heap of _wrong_ that was currently giving him its best pissy face.

_I thought you wanted me to talk?_

Dean scowled and turned down the music, which went against every big brother instinct he’d ever had. He hoped Sam realized the gesture he was making, here.

Except that he needed to stop that kind of thinking right the fuck now.

Him and Sam? They weren’t brothers anymore, and they hadn’t been for a long time. Pretending wouldn’t do either of them any good. Slipping into old patterns would be a freaking disaster.

Dean shut off the music. “Sorry, Sam.”

Sam made a confused noise, deep in his throat. _It’s okay. I mean, if it makes you feel better, I don’t mind. It was just, um, a reflex._

“Dude, it’s Def Leppard, not a security blanket.” Dean caught Sam fidgeting out of the corner of his eye. “Can you tell me what happened?”

 _It’s not like whatever’s happening to you, if that’s what you mean_. _It wasn’t gradual._ Sam said it quietly, like he felt guilty for pointing it out.

Dean caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror. His eyelashes looked like they’d been smudged. His irises had smoothed into one, solid color.

Sam sunk in his seat like a wet, miserable dog. _“There wasn’t any warning. I didn’t even wake up at home. I just appeared on the street. I didn’t know what had happened. I went to my house and there were strangers in my bed. My car and dog were gone. I went to Sarah’s–that’s my girlfriend–and she screamed when she saw me. I tried to tell her it was me, but she couldn’t hear me. I couldn’t write it down, either._ His voice turned bitter. _Telling her wouldn’t have made a difference, anyway. She doesn’t remember me. No one does._

The ‘except you’ went unsaid.

 _I had no idea what was happening_ , Sam said. _I didn’t even realize there were others like me until I saw it on the news._

“Christ, Sammy. I’m sorry.”

 _It’s not your fault._ Sam drummed his fingers against his thighs. Dean couldn’t really see it, but that’s what it sounded like. _There’s no record of me anywhere. I didn't go missing. It’s like I never existed in the first place._

Dean realized he was white-knuckling the wheel. He forced his hands to relax and shot a silent apology to his baby. “The angel said you’d been erased from existence. He thought it was weird that I’d called you. Hey, you think angels tap phones?”

 _You called me? On my phone?_ Sam sounded skeptical.

“No, I put out a bat signal. What else would I call you on?”

_I don’t have a phone, Dean. People who don’t exist don’t have phones._

“Well, you do,” Dean said. “I left a voicemail.”

_So, you not only remember me, but also left a voicemail on a phone that no longer exists? How is that even possible?_

“Demons, Sammy. Demons and angels. I’m three seconds away from pinning everything on the goddamn Easter bunny.” Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, which he tossed to Sam. “Take a look.”

Sam flipped open the phone and started pressing buttons. _Dude, there’s nothing here._

“Did you check ‘Contacts?’”

Sam’s big not-thumbs produced a few more beeping noises. _Yeah, and your outgoing call log. There’s nothing listed in either one._

Dean frowned. “Gimme that.”

Sam handed him the phone, his creepy Shadow fingers brushing against Dean’s human ones. _See? Nothing. You don’t even have any girls’ numbers in here._

“Stop acting like I’m shallow.” Dean scrolled through his contacts, which took about an eighth of a second, since it was empty. Sam’s number wasn’t there. Neither were Bobby’s, or Ellen or Jo’s (Dean hadn’t been able to bring himself to erase those after they'd died), or Lisa’s or Jamie’s or Cassie’s or, you know, anyone’s.

“Shit,” Dean said. “I can’t believe someone erased Gumby Girl.”

_Yeah, you’re not shallow at all._

The phone vibrated in Dean’s hand.

Dean stared down at the square of black plastic. The moment he realized his numbers were gone, his phone starts ringing? Something told him this wasn’t a coincidence. Or a chick from the bar last night.

_Who’s that?_

Dean glanced at the number. “No idea. You think I should answer it?”

Sam sounded worried. _I don’t know._

Maybe he should wait a bit, see if the owner of the big, scary phone number would leave a voicemail. Then again, Dean wasn’t planning on stopping ‘til Sioux Falls. If he was gonna sic some demons on his tail, he’d rather do it while he was a still a moving target.

“Knowing my luck, I’m taking a call from Busty Asian Bigfoot.” Dean accepted the call and put the phone on speaker. “Who’s this?”

“Dean? Where are you?”

There was no mistaking that voice.

“Castiel?” Dean tried to meet his brother’s eyes, then remembered why looking at Sam was a bad idea.

“I can’t track you as long as you stay with Sam, so I provided a way for us to stay in contact. You must tell me your location.”

“Why’s that? Because I’m just supposed to trust you? Let me tell you something, Castiel: I don’t like being lied to, or misled, or whatever the Hell it was you were trying to do. You–what?–thought I didn’t need to know that the Shadow chasing me was my own _brother_?”

“I was going to tell you before we were interrupted.”

“I don't think that's true. In fact, I think you were trying to keep me away from him.”

“You’re not wrong. You’re an anomaly, Dean, and I don’t know what effect his presence will have on you.” Castiel didn’t sound even a little apologetic.

Sam stiffened.

Dean would have gripped his shoulder to reassure him, but...Shadow. “If you’re telling me to leave Sammy, know right now that it’s never gonna happen.”

“He’s a danger to you, Dean.”

“I’ll chance it.”

Dean snapped the phone shut.

_Dean_ –

“Don’t.” Dean kept his eyes on the road. He didn’t trust himself to look at Sammy, plus the strain was probably bad for his eyeballs.

_But what if he’s right? Whatever’s happening to you, it’s because of me. What if being around you makes it worse?_

“Then, we’ll deal.”

_You don’t deal with something like this, Dean! People don’t hear you when you talk. They don’t like looking at you. Everyone you know forgets you even existed_ –

“Sounds like a lucky break. I wouldn’t mind disappearing off some books.”

_Don’t joke about this_. _I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy_.

Obviously, since Sam wasn’t wishing it on Dean.

“Fine. No jokes. But I’m not leaving you on some asshole angel’s say-so. For all we know, he’s lying. I mean, first you _bam_ the guy out of a motel room, then you decide I should listen to his advice?” Dean glared at Sam, keeping his eyes fixed even though it felt like he was about to go permanently cross-eyed. “Let’s at least talk to Bobby before one of us does something stupid.”

Sam looked away. _Fine_. _But if my being here hurts you, I’m not staying._

Dean wasn’t even gonna touch that one.

He turned back to the road, feeling like he’d never been so grateful to look at blacktop. He blinked a couple quick blinks and hoped Sam didn’t notice.

“How’d you know that Angel-B-Gone thing, anyway?”

_Can we save it for Bobby’s_? Sam asked. _I don’t want to have to say it all twice, and I can’t speak directly to Bobby._

“So, we’re playing telephone at Bobby’s slumber party. Awesome.”

Dean turned up the music. The audio crackled, and then the sound of helicopter blades filled the Impala, followed by some synth-heavy guitar. Dean started to beat out the rhythm on the steering wheel.

Sam sighed. _Do we_ _really have to listen to this?_

“Shotgun.”

Dean wasn’t just being an asshole; it was the first word of the song.

###


	4. Chapter 4

Dean pulled up in front of Bobby’s house and turned off the engine. The house looked more worn than he remembered. The roof was saggier, the wood more weathered. But it was still the same damn house, with the same damn windows and eaves and doors and porch. Dean hadn't wanted to come back here.

“So, who’s going in first?” Dean asked.

_You do remember that I can’t talk to him, right?_

“Yeah, but you’re bullet-proof.” Dean tapped his fingers on the steering will. “There’s gotta be someone else who knows about this crap. Gypsies, maybe? Or circus freaks? We could track down some circus freaks.”

 _Dude, we are_ not _chasing down a circus._  
  
“You’re just afraid of the clowns.”

 _You’re just trying to put off talking to Bobby_. _What happened between you two, anyway? I mean, I know this is where you went, um, after._ Sam seemed unwilling to name Jess.

Dean looked out the window, surveying the shadowy heaps of half-wrecked cars in the salvage yard. There must have been an unusual warm streak these past few weeks, since Dean couldn’t make out any snow on the bent frames or crumpled hoods. “What do you think I did? Same thing I do to everybody.”  
 _  
You stole from Bobby?_ _What are you, suicidal?_

“You know me, Sammy. I never found a good person I couldn’t screw over.”

Sam's silence hurt, even though Dean knew he had every reason to agree.

“I’m going in. Stay in the car until I come out and get you, you got that?”

He opened the door and stepped out of the car, then made his way to Bobby’s side door. The paint, once white, had faded and peeled to gray. The window was covered in dust, but the peephole looked clean. Dean leaned in. He could make out some walls and a flickering light that might’ve come from a television, but no sign of Bobby.

Dean stepped back and knocked.

Nothing.

Dean waited about twenty seconds, then rapped the back of his knuckles against the wood. “Bobby?” He looked through the peephole again, just in case Bobby was lurking behind the door. “C’mon, man. I know you’re in there.”

He went to rattle the doorknob, and was surprised when it turned easily under his hand. He looked toward the Impala and nodded to let Sam know what he was doing, then opened the door and stepped inside.

It was dark, but Bobby’s house was always dark, even in daylight. To his right, Dean saw the kitchen. The appliances looked like they’d seen better days, and the whole room was coated with about five more years of grime than Dean remembered. Cordless phones hung on one wall, with masking tape labels reading things like “FBI,” “FED. Marshall” and “HEALTH department.”

Dean frowned. He remembered Bobby taking a lot of phone calls, but they hadn’t been from the kitchen, and he would’ve noticed if Bobby’d been talking to the Feds. Or talking like he _was_ a Fed. The worst he'd seen was Bobby listening to a police scanner, which, in Sioux Falls, meant hearing about drunk rednecks punching the crap out of each other. He also had some thing on the roof to listen to government-alien microwaves or some shit, but Dean had never let that stuff bother him; Bobby was good people. He was sure as hell better people than Dean.

“Bobby?” he called again, before moving through the folding doors into the living room. He saw the tall windows with their ancient lace, the desk piled with books and papers. There were some lit candles in the middle of the desk, like Bobby would leave the house without remembering to put out _fire_.

“You gonna pretend you’re not home all night?” Dean asked, as he stepped through the doorframe.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Dean pivoted to find Bobby standing behind him. He looked about the same as Dean remembered. More tired, maybe; the bags under his eyes were deeper. He wore brown flannel, jeans and a baseball cap. He hair was shorter in the back, now. Dean almost missed the ugly-ass mullet.

Dean’s face spasmed into a smile. “Surprise?”

The older man looked stunned for a moment, then he lunged forward. Something caught the light–a knife. Shit, Bobby was coming after him with _a knife_. Dean grabbed the knife arm and twisted, trying to lock it behind Bobby’s back.

The point grazed Dean’s skin, leaving a shallow line on the underside of his arm. “C’mon, Bobby! It’s me! Dean Winchester!”

“Like Hell!”

Dean felt the cut from Sam’s knife reopen as Bobby jerked against his hold. He wouldn't have removed the towel, if he was just gonna keep bleeding. The pain wasn’t much worse than anything else Dean was feeling at the moment, but it was enough to loosen his grip. Bobby tugged one arm free and turned, crashing his fist into Dean’s jaw.

Dean stumbled back. He raised his hands and moved to the side, trying to put distance between himself and a fatal stab wound. “I can prove it. Your name’s Robert Steven Singer. You took me in about five years ago.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that, boy.” Bobby stepped forward and readjusted his grip on the knife. The blade didn’t look like steel, now that Dean got a better look. He’d lifted enough heirlooms to recognize the tarnish of real silver when he saw it.

“Pedicures, Bobby. I know about the pedicures.”

Bobby’s lowered his knife a fraction. “I never told Dean about no _pedicures_.”

But he’d made the mistake of allowing Dean Winchester into his house, and Dean Winchester had yet to find a lock he couldn’t pick or a man he wouldn’t rob.

“I, uh, found a receipt. When I picked the lock on your desk.”

“ _Dean_?” Bobby dropped the knife–Dean felt a stupid sense of relief–only to reach behind him and pull out a semi-automatic pistol. He pointed the gun straight toward Dean’s chest.

“Whoa! Whoa! Who else could know that?”

“No one,” Bobby said. “Why the Hell do you think I’m aiming?”

 _Dean?_ Sam’s voice came from the direction of the foyer. _Is everything okay?_

Couldn’t that kid follow one freaking instruction?

_Holy crap! Is that a gun?_

“You’ve got a lot of balls, son,” Bobby said. “Why the hell would you come back after that stunt you pulled? I take you in, feed you, get you honest work, and how do you pay me back? You rob from me and _you run_!”

The way Bobby said it, Dean wasn’t sure if he was more pissed off about the money or the great escape.

“I don’t know why you expected any different.”

“I didn’t. That’s what made it so damn disappointing.”

“You think I wanted to come back here and face you? You know me better than that. You know I wouldn’t be here if I had anywhere else to go. I need your help, Bobby.”

Bobby snorted. “That’s a real sad story. Thing is, even if you’re Dean, I can tell you’re becoming something else, too. I don't help things that ain't human.”

“I know. You kill them, right?” Dean watched Bobby give a surprised twitch. “Well, put me in a devil’s trap, and salt me like popcorn. I’m not a demon. I’ve just got half of Hell on my tail. Since Sam told me you shot him full of rock salt, I thought maybe you’d know something about that.”

“Who the Hell is Sam?”

“Well, we might as well get that part over with.” Dean raised his voice. “Come on out, Sam!”

 _He’ll shoot me again_ , Sam said, sounding nervous. _It’s kinda uncomfortable_.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Bobby promises he won’t shoot you. Don’t you, Bobby?”

Bobby’s dirty look promised no such thing, but then his eyes widened, and Dean knew that Sam had stepped out from whatever shadow–heh–he’d been hiding in. Bobby re-aimed his gun. Dean stepped between him and Sam.

“Sam? You _named_ the damn thing?”

“The Shadows are people, Bobby. Something’s been done to them, so no one remembers who they were or what they did or that they even existed at all. Except, I missed the Memento. I never forgot my brother.” Dean nodded toward the Shadow. “That would be Sam, here. Since Heaven wants the Shadows turned back, and I’m guessing that Hell’s not so keen on the idea, I’ve got demons lining up to hate-bang me and an angel looking to–well, I’m not really sure what he wants, other than to keep me away from Sam. But we’re running from him, too.”

“You’re running from an angel? No hunter’s even seen an angel. There’s been no new lore about them for thousands of years, and you expect me to believe that God Almighty broke out a burning bush for Dean Winchester’s sorry ass?”

Dean frowned. “Hunters? Like, demon hunters? Shouldn't you have a better name than that?”

_He just had a gun pointed at your head. Could you try to not be an asshole for five seconds?_

“I’m being cheeky. It’s charming."

Bobby paused. “Who you talking to?”

“Sam. It turns out I speak Shadow.” Dean realized how nuts this all sounded, but he didn't know what to do except barrel on. “Look, this Castiel dude says he’s an angel, and the demons didn’t seem to like him much. Oh, and Sam drew some sort of Enochian doodad–”

 _Banishment sigil, Dean. Banishment sigil._  
  
“–Doodad,” Dean said, with extra emphasis. “That zapped him right out of the room. This crap is all above my pay grade, but if it looks like a duck and talks like a duck, it's probably an angel.”

“So, you’re telling me that this Shadow is your brother, and you’re being chased by the forces of Heaven and Hell?”

“Heaven is kinda down to one guy at the moment, but, yeah, that’s the basic idea. Oh, and something about being around Sam’s slowly Shadowfying me. Any questions?”

“Yeah, I got questions,” Bobby said. “First up: Who else needs a drink?”

 #

Dean rubbed his eyes, wondering if his vision was going blurry along with the rest of him. After a quick splash of holy water, yet another cut with a silver knife and a round of devil’s trap Hokey Pokey, Bobby’d handed Dean an extensive first aid kit and told him to patch himself up.

Now, he was at the kitchen table with Bobby and Sam, nursing a third tumbler of a honey-colored substance that tasted like rubbing alcohol with a hint of oak and melon. It all felt too easy. Bobby’d help anyone, but once bitten, twice homicidal. Dean wasn’t going to fool himself into thinking bygones were bygones, and waiting for the other shoe to drop was starting to get to him.

 _What is that, your third?_ Sam sounded more disappointed than pissed.

Dean drained the glass and poured another. “Now, it’s my fourth.”

 _That’s not funny_.

Bobby took the bottle to top off his own glass, mumbling something that Dean didn’t catch.

Dean sat back in his chair, making its legs squeak against the linoleum. “Ready for story time, Sam?”

 _Bite me, Dean_.

“Sam says he can’t wait to get everything off his chest,” Dean told Bobby. “Let’s see. I think the last thing he told me was that he woke up one day, all Shadowfied. No one remembered who he was and all his stuff had disappeared, except, apparently, for his cell phone, because I was able to call it.”

 _And then an angel called you_.

“And then an angel called me, and I hung up on that angel, because he’s a dick.”

“I don’t need to hear both sides to tell you’re both being idgits.” Bobby pointed first at Sam, then at Dean. “If either of you wants me to help, stop your damn bitching and get me up to speed.”

_Yeah. Sure thing, Bobby._

“Sam says ‘sure thing.’” At Bobby’s look, Dean sighed. “Fine, I do, too. Go on, Sam.”

 _Um, well._ Sam propped his arm on the table, putting his chin in his hand. _I wanted to find answers, you know? I didn’t see any Shadows around so I just started walking East until I did. I’d run into them. Some were just sticking around certain places other seemed to be doing what I was doing. They were traveling, anyway_.

“Wait,” Dean said, after he’d finished repeating Sam’s words. “You don’t know? You mean you didn’t ask?”

Bobby gulped his remaining moonshine, then poured himself another portion.

_I couldn’t talk to the other Shadows! It’s weird. At first, we could kinda gesture at each other, but as time went on, the other Shadows wouldn’t react to me at all. It’s like they stopped remembering that they’d been human, like they were ghosts or something._

“Ghosts remember,” Bobby said. “They’re usually looking for vengeance against someone that wronged 'em.”

“You’re a Ghost Buster, too?” Seriously, how had he known Bobby for years and not realized that he was freaking _awesome_? Dean felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth, but he sobered up real quick at the look on Bobby’s face.

“Fine. We’ve got that the Shadows can’t talk to anyone, and that most of them don’t remember the time before the lights went out.” Dean glanced at Sam. “So, how come you remember?”

Sam shrugged. _I don’t know._ _Maybe, it’s because I was so determined not to forget?_

Inspirational posters might say that determination is everything, but Dean had resolved to get his act straight more times than he could count. He’d meant it when he said it, and he’d still failed every freaking time. No, this was a Winchester thing. A Sam and Dean freak show thing.

 _I don’t sleep, but sometimes I’d...drift off. It’s hard to describe. It’s like the world was getting duller and duller all around me. If something moved, I could pick up on it, and I’d follow it. Eventually, I’d wake up and remember who I was, but it could be three weeks and_ _hundreds of miles later. I just...I guess I ended up in that bar for a reason. Fate, maybe? It wasn't something I planned, but I saw you, and I had to follow you. I never thought you'd_ know _me._

“That's it? Your whole story? You ran around the country like Forrest Gump until you saw me in a bar?”

Bobby pushed away his empty glass. “How'd he know to draw that thing you were talking about?”

“Sam's always had a thing for weird shit. There was that stuff with...I dunno, Buddha and karma and incense, that stuff.”

“Which ain't got a thing to do with angels,” Bobby said.

 _And also isn't true? I have no idea where you got that from._ Sam seemed to realize that he was playing with his hands and took them off the table. _But to answer Bobby's question, I don't know. I don't even know how I can draw it, since I can't write like this.  
_

“You have no idea? You just pulled some doo-hickey out of your ass, painted it on the wall _in my blood_ and slapped it 'cause it seemed like it might banish an angel?”

 _Um, no?_ Sam said. _Or, I mean, kinda? I saw that Castiel standing next to you, and I knew I needed to get him away from you, and it just sorta came to me. Like, the image was right there. I_ saw _it._

“What about that 'it has to be human blood' crap?”

 _I just knew that, too._ Sam sighed. _I'm not gonna pretend like I know how that happened or how it worked. Can't we just be glad that it did?_

Dean looked at Bobby while he repeated all that. He looked suspicious, but he didn't share what he was thinking, so Dean figured it was his turn. He repeated a little of what Castiel had told him. “The angel and his buddies need their suits cleaned up before the prom. They want to fix this.”

“Angels are into possession?” Bobby turned his tumbler in his hands. He seemed like he was mostly turning that over, but Dean elaborated anyway.

“Got it in one,” Dean said. “An angel’s true form will, quote-unquote, overwhelm humans. And I’m not talking sweaty palms; I’m talking Nazis meeting the Holy Grail. They want to walk among us, they zip on some human meat from their own, custom bloodline. Only, every super special human got hit with a huge dose of Shadow, and now the angels don’t fit into their skinny jeans.”

 _Dude_ , _don_ ' _t compare me to girls’ clothing._

Bobby rubbed his forehead. “If it goes by bloodline, how come Sam’s a Shadow, and you ain’t?”

“No idea. It’s attracted all kinds of bad attention, though.”

Bobby folded his hands. “I don’t know much about these angels, but I can tell you what I’ve seen. Last year, we had demons acting up all over the place. I had hunters exorcising whole damn churches. Then there were the tornadoes, the earthquakes, the floods–you name it, it was killing folk.”

_But that all stopped, didn’t it?_

“Sam’s saying he thinks that stopped.”

“He’s right,” Bobby said. “The minute the Shadows showed up, the weather went back to normal, and the demons disappeared. It ain’t ever _been_ so quiet.”

“Angels get banned from Earth and most demons go into hiding? You’d think they’d be making the world their Woodstock.” Dean raised his glass to his lips, only to realize it was empty. He set it back with a thump.

“Unless they’re laying low.”

_Tell him about the diner, Dean._

“For what?” Dean asked Bobby, ignoring Sam.

“How the hell should I know? But I’ll tell you right now; it ain’t _good_.”

_Dean! Tell him about the diner!_

Dean threw up his hands. “Jesus, Sam! I’m getting to it!”

“Getting to what?” Bobby’s eyes darted between Sam and Dean, and then fell back on his drink.

“I met a demon, and she brought a bunch of slobbering sons of bitches with her. I only got away ‘cause of the angel.”

_I helped!_

“Maybe they’ve been waiting for me and Sam.”

Bobby looked real tired, then. “Let’s hope you’re wrong. There ain’t too many things powerful enough to turn thousands of people overnight. I think we better read up on what can. In the meantime, we keep our feelers out. See if we hear anything new about these demons.”

“You really think we’re gonna find an answer in some book?”

“Well, I can’t pull the secrets of the multiverse out of my ass.”

 _Multiverse_ , Sam said. _Like, the Old Ones are watching us from the Vortex Dimension?_

“Don't ask me, Sammy. I don't speak geek.”

_I_ want _to believe Bobby. And maybe he's right on this demon and angel stuff, but that doesn't mean we should assume that he is. He...believes a lot of different things. You remember when we were kids, and he wouldn't let us eat at Biggerson's because aliens were putting drugs in the food to make us dumb?_

No, Dean didn't remember that. Also, Sam should shut the Hell up. If there were angels and demons, who said there couldn't be aliens and multiverses and freaking killer mermaids from space? Dean just wasn't all that inclined to play Scully, considering. Besides, Bobby was clearly right on at least a couple things.

Bobby stood up. “Now, I’m going to get some shuteye. I suggest you do the same.”

“You know any motels around here?” Dean asked.

Bobby humphed. “No need. I’ve got a guest room all set up.”

Two minutes later, Dean found himself locked in what looked like a vault. The door was impenetrable, there was a devil’s trap on the floor and another on the ceiling, and the only sleep surface was a cheap cot.

“This sucks,” Dean said.

 _You’re the one who stole from him_.

Sam could leave the panic room any time he damn well pleased, but he’d chosen to keep Dean company. Dean didn’t know if he was being nice, carrying out some kind of psychological torture or determined to keep his translator in his Shadow-sights, as well as under Bobby’s lock and key.

“Yeah, well it still sucks.”

Dean rolled over and stuck his face in a musty-smelling pillow.

_Dean?_

“What, Sam?”

_I just want to say thanks. For coming back here. I know it wasn't easy._

“Sam?”

_Yeah?_

“Don’t.”

Something scuffed against the floor, and then–

–silence.  
  
###  



	5. Chapter 5

“Where are you, Dean?” Castiel looked darkly furious.

Dean wondered why he was asking when he was _right there,_ in Bobby’s creepy prison room thing.

Wait.

Dean was seated. Castiel stood above him, on some kind of stage.

A stage with poles.

A stage with half-naked strippers dancing around poles.

A stage with half-naked strippers dancing around poles to Led Zeppelin.

“The best strip club _ever_?” Dean said.

Castiel didn’t bother looking at his surroundings, which was a pity; that redhead was a goddamn artist. “This is a dream. I need to know your location in the real world.”

“You’re in my head? Dude, my brain is _private_.” Dean stood up.

Castiel stepped down from the stage and moved closer to Dean, blocking his view. “One encounter with the Shadow has tainted you on a molecular level. Prolonged exposure could unmake your existence. I am trying to preserve you, Dean.”

“Why should I believe you? You lied to me about Sam. Who knows what else you aren't telling me?”

Something sparked in Castiel’s eyes. “I haven't concealed anything that you need to know.”

“Right. So, you gonna tell me what your mission was in the first place? Why are you even here? How'd you get to be the world's only angel ambassador?”

Castiel’s mouth parted a fraction of a centimeter. He recovered quickly, though, his face composing itself back into its usual combination of cold, clean angles. His eyes, though–there was something there. Something deep and distant and kinda sad. “I'm a soldier, Dean. There are things I can't tell you.”

“That's convenient. You wonder why I don’t trust you?”

There it was again–that flicker. “You’re the one angelic vessel who was not turned into a Shadow. Something about you–some element–may provide a cure. I cannot allow your degeneration to progress, not if it jeopardizes my ability to reverse the corruption of our vessels.”

“That’s all you care about, huh? You’re freaking _outfits_!?” Dean poked a finger into Castiel’s chest. “Sam told me what it’s been like. Everything he knew just disappeared. No one remembers him. He can’t talk to anyone who isn’t me! It’s been Hell! This thing has happened to thousands of people; moms, dads, kids! Some of them have probably gone half-insane by now, but you don’t give a shit about any of that, do you? You’re just pissed because someone threw paint all over your goddamn skin coats! People are worth more that that!”

“You will doom those people unless you separate from Sam.” Castiel tilted his head, a strange new cast to his features. “Even knowing that I can be of assistance, you won’t tell me your location?”

“I _don’t_ know that. I don’t trust you.”

Castiel pressed closer. Dean could feel his breath puffing hot and humid against the lower half of his face, which was pretty damn uncomfortable. “You’ve made that clear. Yet, you must realize the danger to which you are subjecting yourself. Why do you show so little regard for you own existence?”

“Why can’t you give me a straight answer?”

“Don’t you think you deserve to be saved?” Castiel blinked at that, like his own words had startled him.

Dean almost laughed. “Dude, I lie and cheat. I steal for gambling and drinking money. When I lose it, and I always do, I go steal some more. I hurt people. The kind of people you should be helping.”

Castiel looked puzzled, like he didn’t see the problem.

Fury built in Dean’s belly. “Losing everything wasn’t enough to change me, okay? This thing with me disappearing? It's freaking overdue! Someone should have killed me the minute Sam headed to Stanford.”

Castiel was silent for a long moment. Dean braced himself, waiting for a flash of holy fire. A sword in the ribs. _Something_.

Castiel raised his arm.  
  
Dean anticipated a blow, but the angel settled for pressing his open palm against Dean’s shoulder. The touch ached, like cold skin stuck under hot running water. There was something freakishly familiar about the gesture. Something that made Dean feel like his world was narrowing into something dark and cold and _stale_. He felt like he knew Castiel, and Castiel knew him.

Castiel withdrew his hand. He looked unsettled, like he’d shared Dean’s strange rush of deja vu. The angel opened his mouth, and Dean tensed, feeling like Castiel was about to say something Capital-T True. Something that was gonna _change_ him, like he’d never been able to change himself.

“You're not what I expected,” Castiel said.

Something whip-snapped in Dean. He slammed his hands into Castiel’s chest, and he shoved.

#

Dean woke up to the smell of bacon and burnt coffee. The door to the panic room was open. After a few furtive stretches confirmed that he was still hurting from the day before, he headed upstairs.

The kitchen table and computer were covered in books. Bobby stood at the stove, petrifying bacon in its own fat, and Sam–

Dean took one look at his brother and almost fell the fuck over. Sam had a face, now. Well, _kinda_. His eyes were dark smears with a brow smudged over them, and his mouth was more suggestion than fact, but there was no mistaking him. That was Sam’s big Sasquatch forehead, all wrinkled with concentration. Those were Sam’s long fingers–he had fingers, now–turning the pages of some ancient, dusty book.

Looking at Sam hurt, same as always, but fuck if he wasn’t staring like a creep.

Dean cleared his throat.

Sam glanced up, and all the strange, blurry planes of his face rearranged themselves. Brows up. Eyes wide. Mouth an open ‘o.’

 _Oh, God,_ Sam said. _Dean..._  
  
“I look worse, huh?”

“Think of it this way,” Bobby told him, as he slid bacon onto a crumpled patch of paper towel. “I could still shoot you as soon as look at you, but it’s gonna take me longer to line up the shot.”

“Yeah, yeah. The world’s already missing my good looks.” Dean grunted as he sat down. He reached for a mostly-empty bottle of rot gut that had been left on the table, only to have Sam snatch it away with a quick flick of Shadow-arm. “Goddammit! Hair of the dog, Sam!”

 _What? That bit you? Because last I checked, you have hellhounds riding your ass and sorry, but I think_ not dying _might go better if you’re not drunk!_

Dean scoffed. It was a calculated move, designed to infuriate. “I don’t get drunk.”

 _Because you’d poison yourself if you tried!_ Sam stood up, his chair teetering in the aftermath of his jettison. _Are you that determined to–to..._ Sam’s chest heaved. _I thought you’d get better._

Distantly, Dean noticed Bobby gripping his frying pan like a bat, looking like he was trying to decide which Winchester to bean first.

“C’mon, Sammy. Let a dying man have his drink.”

Sam reeled back, like he’d been slapped. Then he was gone, like he hadn't been there in the first place. The door didn't even slam. He'd gone through it.

Dean reached for the alcohol, feeling far from triumphant. The hellhound scratches burned when he moved–he could practically feel the infection pussing–and the cut from Sam’s knife wasn’t faring any better. His arm itched where Castiel had groped him. He was falling apart, even before he got down to the molecules and sub-atomics of the universe making him its bitch.  
  
He rolled up his sleeve and poured alcohol over his arm. Dean shook his head and grunted at the pain, then took a swig. Just one. For freaking medicinal purposes. He’d take care of the hellhound scratches later, since he didn’t feel like pouring moonshine through two layers of shirt.

“Sam’s not hulking out or anything,” Dean told Bobby. “He’s just touchy about the part where he’s Shadowfying me.”

Bobby gave him a long look–well, he gave the empty space by Dean’s left ear a long look, anyway–and then started arranging strips of bacon and scrambled eggs on two plates. “You’re telling me you ain’t worried? Whatever’s happening to you, it’s working fast. The Dean I knew was quick to fear for his own skin, but you're acting mighty calm.”

Dean gazed down at his hands. They _were_ blurrier, now that he was really looking at them. He could barely make out his own fingernails. “You think there might be a way to stop it?”  
  
He cringed, because that sounded way too much like asking Bobby for help. He didn’t get to do that, not for himself.

“I don’t know.” Bobby walked to the table, slid one plate across to Dean and sat down in the spot Sam had vacated. “I’ve seen demonic possession, zombiefication, lycanthropy, vampirism. Hell, eat enough people, and you can turn yourself into a Wendigo.”

Dean contemplated his half-charred bacon. His appetite was as fuzzy as the rest of him. “I’m not really in the mood for long pig.”

Bobby’s look said he wasn’t in the mood for Dean’s lip. “Until yesterday, I didn’t even know that Shadows used to be people. There’s no lore about ‘em, which means no one’s even see one before now, much less turned ‘em human. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Dean leaned back in his chair. “The angel I told you about? He came to me in a dream last night.”

“Did he challenge you to a wrestling match?”

“He said Sam’s killing me. That I need to get away from him.”

“You so sure he’s wrong?”

Dean used a crispy piece of bacon to move his eggs around the plate. “I’m sure he’s lying to me.”

“God works in mysterious ways.” Sarcasm lined Bobby's drawl.

"So does IKEA furniture. There’s always that extra screw left over.” Dean set down his bacon and sucked grease from his thumb. “You and Sam find much to talk about?”

Bobby squinted at him. “Your _brother_ ain’t much of a talker.”

“You only say that ‘cause you can’t hear him. He was probably bitching non-stop all morning. I know you don’t remember him, but you and Sam liked each other.” At least, Dean had always thought so. Their father used to drop them off, when he was off doing whatever shitty thing John Winchester did when he said he was 'on a job.' Bobby let them play ball, and he told some freaking awesome ghost stories. Which probably weren't stories, now that Dean thought about it.

He hadn't thought about that, actually. How Sam felt being around someone who should know him and didn't.

Bobby crunched a piece of bacon. “You’ve got to know how it looks from this end. You show up, looking like you look. You bring a Shadow with you and say it’s your brother. You tell me demons are trailing you, and an angel thinks you’re the second coming. I don’t know what to do with all that.”

Dean hoped this wasn't about to become some sort of accusation. He wasn't communing with the evil Shadow people or whatever, and he hoped Bobby didn't expect him to prove that. How could he? It wasn't like Dean hadn't thought the Shadows were up to some bad shit before he'd learned one of those Shadows was _Sam_. He almost said that Bobby would just have to trust him, but who was he trying to kid? “I know, Bobby. I just need to save Sam, okay? We just need to save Sam.”

He didn’t get much satisfaction when the other man couldn’t look him in the eyes.

“I ain’t seen you like this,” Bobby said.

Like what? Like he gave a shit? That wasn’t fair. Dean _cared_. He always had. That’s why his slow, inevitable slide into total failure burned every. freaking. time.

Then again, how would Bobby know that? Growing up, the best parts of Dean were all wrapped up in taking care of Sam.

Dean pushed away his plate. “Sure you have. You just don’t remember.”

#

Dean peeled back a lace curtain and looked outside. He saw rows of crumpled cars. Sam leaned against the garage wall; he’d been keeping some strange, Shadowy vigil for the past couple hours. Dean kept expecting him to come in and try and talk it out, but Sam wasn't budging. Which was fine. Not much like the Sam he remembered, but fine.

“You gonna go out there and talk to him?” Bobby asked.

“Nope.” Dean let the curtain fall closed.

Bobby huffed and shook his head. He sat at the desk, surrounded by books, a bottle of whiskey and a loaded pistol, which was probably meant to guard the whiskey.

“Hey, you don’t get to judge me on this one.” Dean leafed through the book balanced on his knees. “You don’t know what went down between me and Sammy.”

He'd never explained, back when Sam had kicked him out and he'd come to Bobby's. How could he?

Bobby licked his thumb and turned another page. “I don’t need to. Any moron could see he’s scared for you. It would be all over his face, if he had one.”

There was an odd note in Bobby's voice. Dean wasn't sure what to make of it. “He has a face. The blurrier I get, the easier I see him.” He held up the first page he found. “You’re sure an Okami couldn’t have done this?”

“Does it look like we’re in Japan to you?”

“Well, I’m not finding anything powerful enough to attack hundreds of thousands of people at once.”

“And you won’t if you keep yappin’.”

Dean turned the next few pages. Unicorns, dragons, what looked like an oversized goldfish with a serious overbite. He smoothed his fingers over an old-fashioned drawing of a bald man with talons and balloon pants. “Djinn. That’s like a genie, right? Could someone have wished for all this?”

“Djinn don't really change anything. They just make their victim hallucinate.”

“Huh. Sounds like a party.” Not that Dean really wanted to experiment with genie shrooms.

“They drain all the blood out of you while you dream everything’s fine and dandy,” Bobby said. “This ain’t Disney, boy. Don’t go thinking you'll find one thing in those books that won’t kill you or worse.”  
  
Jesus, like Dean needed a lecture on the shittiness of the universe. He twisted his head to look out the window. Sam was still standing, a shadowy island in a sea of rust and bent fenders.

“What good are these books gonna do?” Dean said. “Whatever this is, it’s got something to do with angels and demons, and this is talking about banshees and–and ghouls!”

Bobby closed his book with a pointed ‘thunk.’ “I’m not wasting your time for kicks. Demons are mean sons of bitches, but I’ve yet to meet one strong enough to do anything like this. Pagan gods, on the other hand, don’t take kindly to Yahweh stealing their worshipers. A big cahuna–someone like Zeus or Odin–might be able to organize enough juice to pull a job this big.”

Dean hadn’t really expected Bobby to _answer_. “Would demons work with a pagan god?”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

No, Dean wasn’t buying it. It went angels versus demons, not angels versus Thor or some other god not covered by Marvel. Laying this one on the pagan gods was like looking at a Tom and Jerry cartoon and blaming everything on Tweetie.  
  
“The demon at the diner seemed to know something about what was going on. She knew I shouldn’t know Sam, at any rate, and she mentioned the angels being banished.” Castiel had disagreed on that point, but Castiel was damn disagreeable. “She knew about the vessels, and I’m guessing she’d be chattier than the angelic Geek Squad. You do have ways of making demons talk, right?”

Dean's stomach flipped, even as he said it. But it wasn't like demons were human. It wasn't like he couldn't handle it if they were.

“Yeah, we ask ‘em pretty. Look, calling a powerful demon here’s damn near suicide–”

“But what if they know what’s going on? A strike against the angels; that’s big, right? Word should’ve gotten out.”

“You really think hunters didn’t question demons when the Shadows first showed up? No one got anything out of ‘em, and believe me, there wasn’t a problem with our _methods_. Those demons didn’t know shit. Maybe this one does; maybe she don’t. I ain’t summoning her to my house.”

Dean wasn’t gonna mention that Meg was chasing him and might end up on Bobby’s doorstep, whether she got an invitation or not.

This freaking blew. Here he was, running out of time, and he was just supposed to cross his fingers and hope he’d run across a clue in a dusty old book? Someonehad to know what was going on. Alastair had been a champ at keeping things quiet, but even his operation spouted leaks. Someone on the bottom rung might not know much, but they might know when there was something _to_ know, and they’d tell you who to shake down next.

Dean stood up.

Bobby’s hand twitched, like his fingers were thinking about going for a gun. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Dean motioned toward the back door. “If I don’t come back in a half-hour, I’ve drowned in Sammy’s dumb, girly tears.”

#

Winter in South Dakota was no time to stand around outside for no damn reason. Sam seemed oblivious to the cold, which might be something for Dean to look forward to, unless Sam was Shadowfied while bundled head-to-toe in winterwear? Dean was gonna have to ask him exactly what he was wearing under all that Shadow. He didn't want his Sam-o-vision improving if it meant seeing his brother bare-ass naked.

Sam didn’t bother turning when Dean banged the back door shut and made his approach, just to add that extra dose of chick flick drama. _Leave me alone, Dean._

“No way. Have you seen Bobby’s library? Reading those books is a three-man job.”

Sam shook his head. _I’m not a man, anymore._

“So, you’re what? Not a girl, not yet a woman?”

Sam spun around fast, like a snake. Dean didn’t have to see his face to know that he was furious. It was obvious in his stance, the ham-sized hands fisting at his sides. He loomed over Dean, filling every inch of Dean’s vision, and it freaking _burned._

Sam had looked like this before. At Jess’ funeral. Huge, and bulking, and so full of hurt and hatred and anger. Eyes wet and sharp. Veins jumping. He’s said all kinds of shit. How he’d busted his ass trying to help Dean. How he’d done fucking _everything_ to get Dean clean, to keep him out of trouble, to fucking _support his dumb shit of an older brother._

Sam had almost hit him; he’d been so fucking close. But then–and this was the bitch of it all–he’d gone calm. When Sam told Dean that he was done, that he no longer had a brother, that he would shoot Dean stone-dead the next time he saw him, it was with a cold, amused curl to his lip and a smile in his eyes.

Dean shuddered, almost too caught up in the memory to catch what Sam was saying now: _I’m_ killing _you, Dean! You should be getting away from me, before you get any worse!_

Dean laughed. An abrupt, shattered sound. He couldn’t fucking help himself.

Sam appeared to grow even more furious. _Do you think this is some kind of joke? Did you hear anything I’ve said about this? I don’t want this for you, Dean!_

“Why’s that? Huh, Sammy? Don’t try and pretend like you give a shit about anything but having a translator.”

Sam stopped short.  _You can’t possibly think that._

“I think you can’t stand the idea of being on your own again. No one to talk to. No one else who knows you’re a person.”

 _I’d rather leave than kill you._ Sam’s voice came soft and stubborn.

No. No way. Sam didn’t get to kick him out of his life, promise to kill him, and then act like erasing Dean was gonna make his heart dissolve into a puddle of pink, girly goo.

Dean had deserved it, sure, but it had been Sam who'd cut him off. Sam who'd decided hating his own brother was the only way to go. Dean wouldn't have left, no matter how much he fucked up, not without Sam ordering him to get the fuck out. Sam didn't get to care _now_ , not when his reasons for needing Dean were so fucking obvious.

“You’re not leaving, Sam,” Dean said, with more confidence than he felt. “You don’t have the guts.”

Sam drew himself up, and Dean remembered what a stubborn sonovabitch his brother could be. _Don’t think I won’t, Dean! I’m serious!_

“You’re also being a dumbass. Jesus, Sam. Aren’t you supposed to have a brain under all that skull?”

Sam made a thick sound in the back of his throat. Dean could picture bangs flopping over his eyes, though he couldn’t really make out a hairstyle through all the freak.

“Heaven, Sammy. That angel thinks I’m the key to patching up all the vessels. You really think _angels_ are just gonna let me Shadowfy, when I’m the one thing between them and getting banished off the face of the Earth? Trust me. Once he realizes I’m not abandoning you, he’s gonna be busting that lily-white ass trying to save me. And he will, Sam. He’s _an angel_.”

Sam stared at Dean like he’d never seen him before. _So, you’re calling the angel’s bluff_?

“I’m a gambler, Sammy.”

It was a dumb thing to say.

 _Yeah, and you’re usually up to your eyeballs in debt!_ Sam’s voice rose, an almost hysterical edge zipping along the consonants. _You were_ in jail _, Dean!_

“You don’t lose as much as I did without winning some first. That’s how you get a taste for the game.”

Not that the finer points of gambling addiction were anything Sam needed a reminder on. Hell, he probably knew more about it than Dean, the actual fuck-up.

_Isn’t trying to outsmart an angel kinda like trying to outsmart God? They have a word for that._

“Hubris?”

Sam actually looked surprised. _Well, yeah. But I was going to say ‘suicide.’_

Funny, how quickly Dean could make Sam forget that his number was already up. “Excuse me for making a plan! Sam, that thing you drew on the wall–you got any more where that came from?”

 _What do you mean more?_ Sam asked. _I don't even know how I did it the first time!_  
  
"Well, knock your head against the wall until a way to trap the dude falls out!”

Sam gaped at him. There was no mistaking it. _Trap an angel? You want to trap an angel? That’s even worse than trying to out-smart one!_

“Look, we know there’ s more than he’s telling us. How did he even find me in the first place? You can’t tell me that angels go Patriot Act on every human they find! He was trying to find me, or maybe he was looking for someone to mention you. Either way, we’ve got an angel about as honest as the devil himself.”

 _The devil is an angel_ , Sam muttered. _So, that’s not saying much._

Snide commentary or no, Dean detected curiosity in Sam’s tone. He was winning him over.

_What we would do first? Trap him? How are you going to convince him to help you if he’s trapped in a ring of holy fire? He could lie about stopping this thing that’s happening to you, and then pop out and zap you away somewhere._

Holy fire. Check.

Sam blinked. _Why are you giving me that look? What did I say?_ He paused. _Oh. Oh! Holy oil! We light it on fire, and they can't pass over the flame without dying. I...I don't even know how I know that. How do I know that, Dean?_

“Shadows are angel vessels. Maybe you've got all kinds of angel crap swimming around your brain.” Maybe that explained that bad-touching from Dean's dream. He was an angel's vessel, too, wasn't he? Unless it skipped genes? Or the shit he'd done had dirtied his suit so bad, no angel would want to wear it?

Sam seemed troubled, but also not too willing to pick a fight. _Maybe that could explain it. So, um, I guess we need holy oil._

Not that Dean knew where the fuck you went to get that. It didn’t seem like the sorta thing you could pick up at Home Depot.

“Don’t worry about it, Sam. I’ve got this.”

###

   



	6. Chapter 6

Dean sat on the end of a wooden pier, a tackle box at his feet and a fishing pole in hand. He looked out over the wate. Reflections rippled. He’d never fished much in real life, but he’d always imagined it as patient and peaceful. The kind of thing you did when you were okay with the world, and it didn’t feel like jerking you around, either. It was probably a different experience for the fish.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean saw a tan coat from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t turn his head. “You gonna do this every time I sleep?”

“I’m not sure how long I have before you stop.”

Right. Because Shadows didn’t sleep.

Dean bit the inside of his cheek. Castiel looked almost like he’d chosen the most nondescript vessel on tap, but one glance at his face, and you knew he was something _other_. There was too much confidence, or assurance, or _not blinking_ –whatever it was, there was too much of it–for some nerdy-looking dude in a trench coat.

“Might as well make the most of it while you can, then.” Dean motioned toward a fold-out chair that he didn’t think had been there two minutes ago. Whatever. It was his dream. He could go with it. “C’mon, Cas. Take a load off.”

“You’re worse.” Castiel sat down in a stilted, awkward way, like he thought Dean might disappear the chair out from under him. That would be kinda hilarious, but also not a good lead-in to the kind of conversation Dean needed to start.

Dean felt the tension in the line with his thumb.

Castiel stared hard beyond the water. “I don’t understand why you continue to endanger yourself. If you allow the degeneration to continue, you’ll doom the vessels, Sam. We won’t be able to restore them.”

Dean held his pole between his knees and wiped his hands on his jeans. He'd managed to create clammy palms and black earthworm dirt, even though he hadn't dreamed through baiting the hook. “Let me tell you how this is gonna work. I’m staying with Sam, and you’re gonna figure out a way to stop me from Shadowfying without separating us.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to make demands,” Castiel said, his voice all the more threatening because it didn’t _sound_ threatening.

“You’ve said it a million times. You lose me, you angels can’t dick around Earth _incognito_. If you want to save your skin suits, you’ll have to save me first, and you’ll have to do it without separating me and Sam.”

“You’ve left Sam before. It shouldn’t be that difficult.”

“Maybe this is me finally learning from my goddamn mistakes.”

Something close to grief moved across Castiel's face, and then disappeared. “Angels don't make mistakes. We just obey.”

Dean didn't know what to do when Castiel turned the dial to cryptic. Maybe someone smarter would have known how to finesse the angel and get him talking without pushing him over into weapon-wielding defensiveness. Dean was many things, but no one had ever accused him of _smarts_. “What if the order's bullcrap? Or you don't obey?”

“The first angel who disobeyed was imprisoned in Hell. As were many who followed him. The rest were killed. Their wings were pinned to the gates of Heaven as a reminder to the rest of us.”

Dean wasn't what you would call a Bible expert, but he got the gist: Castiel was talking about the devil. Who was real, apparently.

“Sorry?” he ventured.

“I had a commander, once, who chose to fall.” Castiel must've caught the confused look on Dean's face. “We can tear out our Grace and be reborn as humans. The process is incredibly painful and strictly forbidden, and it is considered one of the worst forms of disobedience.”

“So, why do it?”

“You'd have to ask Anna. She had an...unhealthy fascination with you.” Castiel's eyes went back to Dean's face, although they only stayed there for a second. “Humans. Not you personally.”

“Good, because you're about all the holy stalker I can handle.”

Castiel leaned forward in his seat. “As a human child, separated from her Grace, she was almost impossible to find. But as an adult she started...tapping into our communications. I was ordered to find her and carry out her sentence.”

Dean understood. “You _killed_ her.”

“I tried. I think my superiors chose me because Anna and I had a personal connection. But, in the end, she evaded me long enough to regain her Grace and return to being an angel.”

“So, Heaven just took her back?”

“She evaded us for awhile. Then, she was seized, and the others...helped her return to true belief. She died shortly afterward. I don't know the details of her death, only that it happened during a mission.” Castiel gripped his own knees. “We don't disobey, Dean. At least not for long.”

Clearly, angels could and _did_ disobey, otherwise this Anna chick wouldn't have chucked out her Grace. But Dean didn't know how to say that without pissing Castiel off.

“I'm grateful that I was able to catch Anna.” Castiel studied the warped boards of the dock.

“You’re grateful that you were able get some old war buddy of yours reconditioned? That’s sick."

“It was _just_.” Castiel sounded like he believed it, too. Then his voice grew softer, and he seemed to struggle for a moment. “It wasn't easy. But I trusted in Heaven's orders.”

Dean got that. Castiel had chosen to believe, because otherwise he'd gotten his friend tortured (and possibly killed?) for no good reason. That opened up a whole thing, didn’t it? It meant Castiel wasn’t a robot. He was a scary superman person-lite, sure, but not _unreachable_.

“It’s not like I want to stop you and Heaven, I guess, from helping those people. Your vessels,” Dean said. “I just won’t leave Sam to do it.”

“I don’t know how to stop this. If you stay with Sam, I don’t think I can find a solution before you’re lost.”

“What if we make a deal?” Dean asked. “How about, instead of trying to make me leave Sam, you help us figure this thing out? And if it looks like we can’t, uh, un-erase me, _then_ you stick me on an island somewhere. Let’s just leave that part to the last minute, okay?”

“You wish to work together?”

“Yeah. I guess that’s what I’m saying. Yes.”

Castiel stared at Dean way too long, and then nodded his assent. “Tell me your location.”  
  
“Singer’s Salvage Yard, in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.”

Dean woke up with a gasp, disorientated. He was on a cot in Bobby’s basement, though not inside the panic room. They’d moved it, thinking the panic room wasn’t the best place to set a fire...

“Dean.” Castiel loomed over him. He extended one hand.

Dean yelped and rolled onto the floor. His sore shoulders protested as he hit the cement, but he didn’t have time to worry about his body breaking down on him. He tucked his legs in, felt the cement dig into his back, and then his hip, and then he was outside the circle and fumbling in the pocket of his over-shirt. He stood and backed up, trying to remember exactly where Bobby had drawn the line.

Castiel followed him, looking remote and alien. “I’m sorry, but I can’t risk you.”

Dean pulled out a lighter. Flipped it open. Rasped his thumb over the top.

He threw it down.

A circle of flame erupted on the basement floor, surrounding Castiel.

“Sorry, man,” Dean said. “I can’t seem to do anything else.”

 #

Castiel took in the flames. “Holy oil. I didn’t tell you about this.”

“Nah, you just confirmed in that little back-story thing you did back there.” Dean shrugged. “You’ve got Sam’s vesseling and Bobby's pantry to thank for this. That, and your friendly cooperation allergy. You think I didn’t know you’d lie through your teeth to get a stab at me?”

_Dude, you’re totally doing a bad guy monologue._ Sam popped his head out of the panic room.

“Am not.”

_Are too! Seriously, what are you going to do next, leave him alone in the trap after telling him it’s impossible to escape?_

“Stop butting in on my James Bond moment!”

_You are so not James Bond in this scenario._ The angel _’s James Bond. You’re the guy with the Persian cat!_

“I do not have a Persian cat!”

Castiel eyed him. “I don't understand. Why does Sam think you need one?”

“Dude, you can hear Sammy?”

_Don’t call me Sammy!_

“No. At least not completely.” The firelight bouncing off the bottom of Castiel’s features didn’t make him look any less haughty, that was for sure. “I mostly just hear what he tells you.”

“Mind-reading makes you a dick,” Dean told him.

_Stop taunting the angel, Dean!_

Dean wondered how human minds looked to an angel–all puny and narrow and dated, their simple thoughts bouncing back and forth like the dot in Atari Pong. Only, with more weird porn.

Which immediately brought Dean’s mind to weird porn.

And now Castiel was looking _extra_ smitey. “Sam Winchester. You must leave your brother.”

“Don’t even try to go through him.” Dean cut Castiel off. “You’re the guy caught in the fiery circle. That means we ask the questions, _capiche_?”

_Dude,_ Sam said. _James Bond._

Dean raised his voice in an effort to drown out Sam. “Better yet, you could just be straight with me. I think that would clear up a whole lotta headaches.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed. His shoulders rolled back. When he spoke, he inserted pauses between his words, like each one was a full thought–a foundation–that needed solid mortaring before another syllable could be applied. “About what, Dean? The danger to which you so foolishly expose yourself? You must release me. Now. Before all is lost.”

“Yeah, order Dean Winchester around some more. That’ll work.”

Dean heard the sharp, unmistakable sound of a round sliding into place and turned on his heel to see Bobby standing on the stairs, gun in hand. “You princesses done asking each other to prom? Because I found something that just might save our asses.”

“Release me, Dean.” Castiel stepped forward, the toes of his dress shoes edging the trap’s flaming perimeter. “That's not...Bobby. That's a demon. Meg.”

Dean felt a shiver crawl up his spine, but he knew it wasn't true. Bobby's place was a fucking fortress, and Sam would've noticed a little something like Meg attacking the house while Dean slept. For one thing, she would've brought dogs.

_He's lying. He's got to be,_ Sam said. 

“Yeah, I got that.” Dean shook his head. “Dude, you just finished betraying me. You really think I'm gonna trust anything you say?”

Castiel's eyes widened in something almost like panic. “Dean, you must listen to me. Meg will kill you, along with every hope we have.”

“Haven't you knuckleheads learned a damn thing?” Bobby asked.

_Um,_ Sam said. 

“This angel tells you a man's possessed, and you decide he's wrong without doing a single test?”

“He's not wrong?” Dean asked, feeling stupid. Because he knew Bobby, and he'd seen more than enough of Meg, and everything in him said he was talking to the former.

"No, he's lying through his goddamned teeth. But you don't know that.” Bobby rolled his eyes. “C'mon upstairs. I'll drink some holy water, and not from my flask, since a demon could've contaminated it. But don't you dare try and pull something this stupid again, you hear?”

He turned and headed back up the stairs. Dean followed after him. When he got to the stairs, he looked back.  
  
Castiel met his gaze, which wasn't exactly unusual for the guy. This time, though–it seemed just a little less alien, a little more vulnerable. “I see now that I've failed you. It was not my intention. I'm sorry.”

He probably meant it, too. He was sorry that he'd fucked up, and Dean had stuck him in a cage. He was sorry that his last-ditch lie hadn't held much traction. Dean didn't care much about that kind of sorry.

“Stop acting like this is over. We're not done talking.”

_C'mon, Dean. Let's go._ Sam didn't give him a gentle push, but his Shadow-hand came just a bit too close to making contact. Dean went.  
  
#  
  
Bobby opened yet another giant, dusty book and flipped through its pages, stopping when he reached a color plate. As expected, he had passed the holy water test just fine. They'd used a jug stashed beneath his desk. He brandished the illustration: a medieval depiction of a dude with a sword stabbing some weird creature. He wore loose, colorful robes and rocked girlier locks than an eighties hair band. “This is the archangel Michael. He's supposed to be the biggest, baddest sonovabitch Heaven's got.”

“Him? Bon Jovi could kick his ass.”

“Not according to the lore.” Bobby placed the book back on his desk. “That sword of his is supposed to be one of the strongest weapons in Creation.”

Dean looked at Sam, and it said something that he'd rather beat up his retinas than continue looking at Michael's strawberry blond curls. Sam shrugged. He didn't seem to know where Bobby was going with the art history lesson, either.

“What's this got to do with us?” Dean asked. “I don't need a weapon. I need the opposite of a weapon. Skin-epoxy for myself, and something to reverse what happened the other poor bastards marked for angel-wear.”

“Think, boy. We're in the middle of a rumble between Heaven and Hell. Don't you think we ought to seek out the one thing that could defeat both of them?”

_Michael's sword defeated Lucifer._ _That means it can hurt angels._

“An angel's weapon should be able to mince a demon or two,” Dean said.

Bobby looked between them, and Dean realized that he hadn't bothered repeating Sam's words. “Sam says he's been to Jesus camp. Something 'bout s'mores. Do we even know where this sword is? Or that it'll do what we want?”

“Well, I might be able to find us some leads,” Bobby said.

Dean itched for a drink. “Look, man. I get that you're Buffy and the Ghostbusters and Bruce Campbell all rolled up in one, but I'm running out of time, here. I'm not gonna go running after some sword because it might be able to kill demons. That's not my priority.”

Bobby eyed him hard, and then seemed to arrive at a decision. He grabbed a glass and decanter off his desk, pouring a healthy portion of what smelled like turpentine. “Sit down and have a drink.” 

_Does he know you're an alcoholic?_ Sam crossed his arms as Bobby passed the glass to Dean.

"I don't think he has any room to talk.” Dean took a sniff of Bobby's rot gut, and would've sworn his nose hairs had just curled. He sipped it anyway, enjoying the burn, and sat down on Bobby's sofa.

Sam shook his head, disgusted, and paced a few lines in front of Bobby's desk.

“Listening to one-half of your bitching isn't exactly music to my ears.” Bobby settled in his chair, his eyes following Sam. “There might be a couple things I haven't told you two.”

_What do you mean? What haven't you been telling us?_

“Pipe down, Sam.” Dean swallowed some more alcohol. He could feel it searing down his throat and through his veins, making everything seem just a little less sucktastic.

Sam shot him a pissed look, then glared down at Bobby.  _I don't like this, Dean. Why would he withhold information from us?_ Sam waved his hands in large arcs.  _Why would Castiel warn us against him? He handled all that silver and stuff. We know he checks out._

Dean had shown up out of the blue, five years after running off with Bobby's money and some pawnable weapons. He'd arrived with a Shadow in tow, insisted said Shadow was his  _brother,_ and asked for Bobby's help. Did Sam really think they'd form a sharing circle and that would be that?

“Weren't you the one insisting that the angel is a lying douche?” Dean took another sip. “I'm not gonna get pissed because Bobby's not into full disclosure. Hell, I'd be worried if he was. Anybody who'd trust me's got another thing coming.”

Sam spun around and looked at Dean, all wounded confusion.  _I trust you. I'm trusting you._

He might as well have punched Dean in the throat. What was Sam asking for, really? A 100 percent guarantee that Dean was bound to fuck this thing up, too? Dean glanced at the contents of his glass, and then tossed it all down and got up for a refill.

Bobby poured Dean another good-sized portion–three, four fingers–and then leaned back against his chair. “Listen, knuckle-heads. Remember what I said before about the natural disasters we were seeing last year? The hurricanes and earthquakes?”

Dean smacked his lips and took another sip. His lips were starting to feel a tad numb, which had to make this 'shine 100 proof. Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten drunk enough to feel it, and it wasn't like he normally watered down his drink.

_What about them?_

“Yeah. What about them, Bobby?”

“I can't say this for sure, but there's one event in the lore that supports what we were seeing. The disasters. The extra demon activity. That malaria outbreak that hit a couple cities on the West coast. All the signs point to someone letting Lucifer out of his cage.”

Dean froze, a cold, inky, terrible feeling rising up in his gut. “Lucifer. As in devil Lucifer?”

_Lucifer was in a cage?_ Sam asked, but Dean was too distracted to repeat the question to Bobby.

“You know of any other Lucifers?” Bobby swirled the contents of his glass, but didn't drink.

Dean felt sick. Nauseated. The edges of the room had taken on a life of their own, bleeding into a blurred wash of moving color. Dean closed his eyes, but that just sharpened the pounding in his skull. The devil? How the Hell was this shit tied up with _the devil_? It seemed like every time Dean accepted one completely unbelievable thing, another layer of icing got plastered on the crazy cake.

“Legend has it that when Lucifer rebelled, God had Michael cast him into a cage in Hell. There are, or were, over 600 seals, but you only had to break a handful of those to bust him out.” Bobby stretched, in a move that was as cat-like as Bobby could get. “Sixty-six broken seals, and Satan's got his limo to the homecoming dance.”

_But how do you know that the seals were broken?  
  
_ Bobby drew his pointer finger through the dust on his desk, forming a sideways eight. "A couple witches raised Samhain last Halloween. Ten species went extinct in Key West alone. A bunch of Alaskan fishermen got struck blind. A teacher in New York went postal and–"

_Killed sixty-six children._ Sam finished the statement at the same time as Bobby, and then continued: _I saw that one on the news._

“Could you keep your voice down? Jesus, Sammy.” Dean downed some more liquor. “How do you know they were seals, though? Bad shit happens all the time, and there's never a reason for it. Not really.”

_Well, it was escalating, wasn't it? If first you had all these raisings and stuff, and then suddenly it gets that much worse and you're having mudslides and tidal waves and towns going crazy._ Sam almost sounded excited, like he'd been working on a jigsaw puzzle that was finally coming together. Dean couldn't say that he shared the feeling.

Bobby spoke right over Sam. “It's not like I've got a direct line to Heaven, but the reports I've gotten from hunters in the field fit with what the lore says about the apocalypse. Or, it did, right up until the Shadows showed up and everything stopped.”

Dean's tongue felt heavy and dry. His head lolled back on the couch cushions. “You think the Shadows stopped the apocalypse?”

“I wouldn't go that far.” Bobby stopped doodling his eights for a minute. “But let's say you're Lucifer. You finally get out of jail, home-free, and every book ever written says you've got a vested interested in creating chaos on Earth. What are you gonna do next?”

“Murder Disneyland?”

“I figure Lucifer planned on grabbing himself a vessel, same as any other angel that wants to spend some time on Earth. Only, oops, someone pissed on his suit when he wasn't looking.”

_You think someone did this to the vessels to stop Lucifer? But–there's so many! They can't all be meant for Lucifer. Why would whoever did this do this to everyone? To kids? And doesn't that just mean that Lucifer has to run around in his true form, burning people's eyes out? How would that put an end to Armageddon? This isn't making any…Dean?_

“What up, Sammy?” Dean felt a lazy grin split his lips. He snapped his fingers a few times, just because it felt nifty with numbness shooting through his hands.

_Uh, you okay?_

“Never been better.” Dean finished his drink and leaned forward on his knees. “Only got one issue with your theory, Bobby. Where do the rest of the angels fit in? They're all scrambling to get their outfits back. Why'd they do that if this whole thing was a move against Lucifer? I don't know much, but I know Heaven's not supposed to get chummy with Satan.”

“Beats me.” There was something calculating in Bobby's eyes. “Look here, Dean-o. I'm not saying I know everything that's going on. I'm just saying that maybe the angels of Heaven don't live up to their lily-white reputation. That angel you've trapped in the basement? He's lied to you. Manipulated you. He's weaker than he should be. You know what the lore's got to say about that? That's what happens when angels _fall_.”

Castiel had admitted to being 'diminished,' and Meg–what had Meg said?  _Someone’s been a naughty boy, and now his daddy’s gone and taken away all his juice_ .

Had Castiel disobeyed? Was he a rogue angel taking advantage of the angels’ time-out to fuck with the mud monkeys? It seemed like now was as good a time as any to get up to blasphemous shenanigans, since no one could come to Earth and smite him for it. And if he were in league with _Lucifer..._

Something told Dean that wasn't it. But Castiel sure wasn't coming out smelling like roses.

Bobby continued like Sammy hadn't said a word, which made sense, seeing as Bobby couldn't hear him. “I'm not totally sure we can trust the books on this one. I don't know what Castiel's end game is, but if Lucifer's involved in this mess, I'd like to get my hands on the one weapon that's defeated him. Refresher: that would be the Michael sword.”

_Wait, are you seriously suggesting that we ask Castiel about a sword that's supposed to kill the devil? If Lucifer escaped or whatever, wouldn't he have a vessel already?_

Dean had a hard time focusing on Bobby and Sam's words. Something was bugging him, and it wasn't this whole sword business. He felt disembodied.

Bobby leaned forward, cupping his chin in his hands. “I get this feeling Clarence probably knows a thing or two about Heaven's most powerful weapon. Wouldn't you agree, Dean-o?”

Dean rose to his feet, suddenly feeling dizzy. His disorientation wasn't normal, not after two drinks. Not after _twelve._ He was sick, or the blurs were getting to him. There was an itch in his gut that he didn't like. A deep, crawling feeling that he was missing something big, here. Something _important_.

His lungs tightened. Shit. _Shit._

Castiel hadn't lied. Well, not about this one, extremely important thing. Meg must've messed with the holy water, somehow...

Dean tried to catch Sam's eye, but his brother was busy staring down Bobby. Which brought Dean back to _shit_. He didn't know how this was supposed to go, and the adrenaline shaking through him wasn't making him any less clumsy on his feet. He needed to think, dammit, and he couldn't. His brain was firing on a thirty-second delay, and his heart was thumping in his head, and Dean _didn't know what to do_.

Dean worked his throat, willing his voice to come out steady. “Maybe we should all go downstairs and question him. That's what we captured him for, isn't it?”

Bobby shrugged. “I'm not sure how you go about interrogating an angel, but I don't see another option.”

_Okay._ Sam sounded worried.  _Dean, are you sure you're fine?_

“Me? I'm peachy.” Dean swallowed. “Actually? You know what, my throat's a little sore. I'm just gonna get some, uh, some water from the kitchen. Why don't you two start without me. We all know Bobby's the expert on this stuff, anyway.”

Bobby's lip twitched, like he was fighting a smile, and Dean shivered.

How had he not noticed it before? How long had Meg been in there? It couldn't have been long. Sam was right–Bobby had handled silver and holy water last night.

Dean hadn't magically transformed into a light weight. He'd been freaking drugged! This stupid bitch had broken into Bobby's house, taken over his body and used it to slip Dean a roofie!

Dean's knees buckled at the thought, and that really wasn't good. But no, he had to stop with the frigging hysterics and figure out how to get them all out of this. Salt. There had to be salt in the kitchen, right? He'd come back and season Bobby up…except Dean knew how to hurt a demon, but he didn't know what hurting a demon did to the person inside, and this was _Bobby._

What had Castiel said, a million years back, in that motel room? _They know many languages, but only a few have the power to banish them. You must learn Latin, or at least memorize the exorcisms._

Yeah, okay. He just had to learn Latin in the time it took to grab a drink of water.

_Dean?_

“I'm just tired, Sam.” Dean forced a smile he couldn't even feel. “I'll get that water and come join you two.”

“Don't take too long, Chuckles.”

Bobby freaking winked.

Dean punched him. He wasn't even sure it was happening until his weight followed the momentum of his fist, and his knuckles were splitting the soft skin on Bobby's cheekbone.

_Dean!_ Sam yelped.  _What the Hell!?_

Bobby fell back, and Dean was on him, pinning him down.

“ _Christo_ , bitch.”

Bobby's eyes slithered black. “Hello again, Dean.”

###


	7. Chapter 7

_Bobby really is a demon?_ _Are you kidding me? Are you freaking kidding me?  
_

"It's Meg! Now would be a good time to find some salt, Sam!” Dean fought to keep Meg pinned. The room Catherine-wheeled around him, all shadows and shrieks.

_Right on it!_

Dean heard cabinets slamming and books toppling, but they quickly faded into a whirring kaleidoscope.

Meg craned her neck, purring into Dean's ear. “It didn't take too long for you to recognize me, once we were talking one-on-one. I guess I'm not the only one struggling with this tension between us.”

Bobby's whiskers tickled the side of Dean's face, and he didn't bother suppressing a grimace. “Lady, I wouldn't touch your flea-bitten ass if you were possessing Heidi Klum.”

“Oh, it wouldn't have to come to that. You'd do it in a heartbeat if it meant saving your precious Sammy.”

“Can you do that?”

“Not the way you're thinking, hot shot.” Meg slammed her head forward, cracking it into Dean's skull.

It was a dumb move. Dean had learned early on never to place a hit that hurt you as much as your opponent, but that rule didn't seem to apply to demons. As soon as the firecrackers faded, Dean found himself staring up into Bobby's blacked-out eyes. Meg straddled him, her fingers banded steel around his wrists.

“Believe it or not, I _am_ helping you, Dean-o. I just figured you'd have an easier time accepting the info from Grumpy, here.” Meg licked her lips. “Demons don't always lie, you know. When you're sitting on a real painful truth, lies would be a kindness, and we're never, _ever_ kind. That angel you're sporting is damaged goods, and he's not on your side.”

Dean attempted to buck her off. “You think I'll like your game plan any better?”

“Sure do. You see, unlike your darling little attic cat, I _want_ the Shadows all squishy and human.”

“Why would you want that? Don't you demons get to do whatever you want, now that angels can't come down here and kick your asses?”

“Like they ever bothered before? God doesn't care about you sloshy little meat sacks, and neither does the harp-and-halo crowd.” She nipped his ear. Alcohol and rotten eggs soured Bobby's breath. “You were wondering what could be powerful enough to make the Shadows? There's nothing in Hell or Earth, babe. But Heaven? Heaven's got all that juice and more.”

“You're saying the angels destroyed their own vessels? Why the hell would they do that?”

“Mysterious ways.” Meg looked at something over Dean's head and grinned. “You don't have to take me at my word. Ask Castiel about the Michael sword. Ask Castiel why he's _here_. If nothing else, watching him squirm his way around the question will be better watching than _Glee_.”

“A kick to the nuts is better than watching _Glee_.” Dean worked a knee free and lashed up, hitting Meg in the stomach. Her grip loosened, just enough for Dean to twist their bodies and throw her off. She hit the ground with a 'whoof,' rug dust puffing around her.

“Sorry, Bobby.” Dean tucked and rolled and lurched to his feet. The room carouseled, and he stumbled to the desk. The solid object did a little to steady him, but Dean needed more than a physical support. His fingers searched the top of the desk, trying to find a weapon. The gun wouldn't do much good against Meg, and he didn't want to think about shooting Bobby.

What had Castiel said?  _Iron weapons are the most effective, saying the word ‘Christo’ forces demons to reveal themselves, and holy water burns their skin. These measures offer some protection against younger demons…_

Great, but how old was Meg?

Dean's hand closed around an iron knife. He realized that Sam had been gone way too long, and soft thumps and groans were coming from the kitchen. “Sam!” Dean shouted.

_I'm coming , Dean!_

That's when Dean heard the dogs. They sounded distant. That wasn't all that comforting.

“I'm fine, Sammy! Just give me a moment to gank this bitch.”

Meg smiled, showing teeth. “You know, you stab me, you stab Bobby. He's still in here, watching everything that's going on. You should have heard what he was saying when you chuckleheads weren't getting it. He had some _real_ choice words.”

“You really like the sound of your own voice, don't you?” Dean drew the knife up to his chest, brandishing it. “The demonic army's a nice touch.”

“Army? Please. We're just some friends crashing a party.” Meg laughed when Dean lunged. She ducked the knife. Dean's momentum made him stumble forward. “I'm really more a lover than a fighter.”

Sam yelled, and suddenly, there were demons pouring into the living room. Their hands clutched at Dean's arms. He struggled, but the drugs had made him weak.

A demon removed the knife from his hand.

_Dean! I'm okay, but I'm being held. I can't get through–_

“Sammy!”

_Don't answer me! They can't know we're talking! Maybe we can break free and head to the basement?_

Meg gripped the knife, careful to keep her fingers on the bone handle instead of the iron blade. She stepped forward, teasing the sharp edge against Dean's throat. “I'm here to offer you a deal, Dean.”

_I know a few exorcisms, but I think we should trap them first. Maybe if we can herd them toward the devil's trap in the basement? I'm guessing they've already destroyed the one under the carpet, but Bobby didn't go all the way down the stairs, right? Maybe it's because the demon knows it could still get trapped?_

Dean tuned out Sam's words. “Even I know not to make a deal with a demon.”

“Do you? Well, that's neither here or there. I want to get the Shadows back to who they're supposed to be, and something tells me you're the key. Now, this could be the start of a real beautiful friendship, or the part where I tear you away from Sammy-boy and keep you in locks and chains.”  
  
“What if I told you to stick it where the sun don't shine?”

“I'd say I'm not going to kill you, but I wouldn't mind you with a few extra holes.” Meg raised her knife and swung it down, aiming for Dean's shoulder.

_Dean!_

Dean heard the liquid _thwick_ of the stab, followed by a quiet groan. He opened his eyes. It was Bobby–all Bobby–and a knife was in his stomach, steam hissing around the blade.

“Oh, shit,” Dean said, at the same time that Sam yelled, _Now!_

Dean slammed his elbow back, breaking the demons' grip. He punched one, feeling the crack in his knuckles. There were too many to fight, but Dean fought anyway. He'd been in fights before–he'd been in _worse_ fights–and the whir and the slow-down felt harsh and familiar.

The demons fell back. It took Dean a second to realize it wasn't because of him.

Sam was tearing through the demons. Something about his touch was _doing_ something to them. He gripped a middle-aged woman's head, and she seemed to crumble and blur into nothingness, like she was being drawn into the black hole of Sam's Shadow–

–But then she was corporeal again, and gutted. _Literally gutted_. Intestines fell from her stomach like rubber hoses.

Dean drew back, horrified. He couldn't see his brother anymore. Not in this thing.

Then, he remembered the last time he'd seen Sam human.

“This would be my cue to slip into something more comfortable.” Bobby's eyes shuttered black. Meg threw his head back, and smoke cycloned out of his throat. The room shook, and Bobby's body went tumbling. Dean caught him.

Sam reached them. His oily, terrible fingers pawed over Dean's chest, over Bobby, and Sam was pushing them toward the basement. They hit the stairs. The door slammed shut and locked behind them. Demons pounded at the wood.

He heard Castiel's booming voice, shouting his name, but it was drowned out by the demons' snarling.

“The panic room,” Dean wheezed. “Let's get Bobby on the cot.”

Dean struggled with Bobby's weight as Sam kept up a nervous babble beside him.

_Jesus, Dean. Did she hurt you? Are you okay? What the Hell was that? When did you know she was in there?_

Dean managed to flop Bobby onto the cot. The knife was still in his belly. Dean reached to pull it out.

_No! We don't know what that knife's touching. If we pull out, he could bleed to death before we get him to the hospital._ Sam ran a nervous hand through his hair.  _He's breathing, anyway. That's better than I expected._

“Right.” Dean's knees shook, and Sam grabbed him, keeping him upright.

_You scared the crap out of me._

He pushed Sam's hands away. “Cry on me, and I'll punch you. We need to get out of here.”

Sam nodded, looking shaky.  _The idea was to get the demons down here, not us. I don't even know if there's a way out._

“Cool it. I'm alive, and we'll find a way to get out of this. You're not totally doomed yet, alright?”

Sam's bottom lip wibbled. He surged forward, and Dean braced himself for–well, he didn't really know. But then it came: a cold, polluted wave of wrong. It looped its arms around his shoulders and squeezed against his sore ribs, and Dean was drowning in the most nightmarish, skin-crawling feeling he'd ever felt, like someone had pushed him inside out and stretched his nerves on racks and turned his bones to putty.

Sam was hugging him.  
  
 _You're the biggest fucking idiot_ , Sam said. 

 It seemed like a good time to pass out.  
  
#

When Dean came to, he was in the panic room. He sat up with a low groan and saw Bobby, still passed out on the cot, his face pale and sweaty. The knife handle projected from his stomach. Dean turned away.

Dean's head felt about three times too large. His skin crawled, though a quick glance at his hands revealed no changes on the Shadow front. Whatever Meg had given him, it wasn't quite gone.

He heard thumping upstairs. Muffled curses. A couple masculine grunts.

“Sam?” It didn't come out loud enough on the first dry. Dean gave it the old GED try. “Sam!”

Feet barreled down the stairs, and Sam appeared in the door way. _Dean! Thank God! I salted the doorway and hammered some more boards on the door, but I don't think that will hold them forever._

“Castiel?”

 _He's still where we left him. In the trap._ Sam looked uneasy. _What are you thinking, Dean? I thought about releasing him, but chances are he'd just take you and leave Bobby here to die._

“I think I'm stoned.” Dean rose slowly to his feet, ignoring Sam's proffered hand. He'd enough skin-to-Shadow contact to last him forever, thanks. He stumbled out of the panic room, a clumsy side-step carrying him past Sam.

Castiel stood in the dead center of the trap. He hadn't taken his sword out, but he didn't look any less dangerous for the lack of weaponry. “Dean.”

Dean drew in a breath. “You told the truth about Bobby.”

“Yes.” If Castiel had shown even the tiniest hint of cockiness at that moment, Dean would have crossed the flames and throttled him. But behind Castiel's firm exterior, Dean saw weariness. Maybe some sadness.

“Has it occurred to you that maybe I'd trust you more if you just told me what's up? I'm serious, Cas. Lay it out for me. Tell me why a demon told me I need to find something called the Michael sword.”

“Demons lie,” Castiel said, after his silence stretched long enough to announce 'evasion' in neon lights. “I can't tell you why they say anything.”

Dean caught his gaze and held it. And held it. And held it some more. At least it was easier than staring down a Shadow.

_Maybe you should just let him go,_ Sam said.

“Didn't you just say he'd take off with me, leaving Bobby to die?”

_Maybe you can get him to agree to saving you and Bobby and leaving me?_

“That's not an option, Sam.” Dean glared at the general vicinity of his brother.

 _Actually, it kinda is._ Sam ducked his head, but kept his eyes locked on Dean's face. _The demons can't kill me, Dean. There's too many for me to take them out without leaving you and Bobby unprotected, and I–I can find you guys again, if I have to. It's better than letting you two die on me. Castiel could zap you out of here and get Bobby to a hospital._

Dean pointed at Castiel. “He stabs people!”

“I have killed under orders. You should understand that.”

Did the angel know about Alastair, then? Of course he did. He was fricking _in Dean's head_.

Dean wasn't going to react. He wasn't. He rubbed his temples and wished things could be easy, just this once. “Releasing this asshole isn't an option, Sam. He's done nothing but lie to me. He'll probably hold me prisoner or something.”

Castiel gave Dean a pointed look.

“I'm a bad guy. I get to do bad guy stuff.” Dean paced a few steps. “Sam, that freaky thing you did to that demon upstairs–is that what you did with the hellhounds back at that diner?”

_Yeah,_ Sam said, subdued.

“If they really can't kill you, maybe you can slip through the wall and see if you can't clear a path to the Impala?”

_Even if I could, you'd have to find a way out of this basement. You'd have to get to the car while carrying Bobby. That's not gonna help you fight, man._ Sam fiddled with his fingers, like he didn't know what to do with his hands. It was an awkward gesture, carried over from childhood.  _However many demons there are now, I'm betting there are more on their way. I don't know that I'd be able to stop them all Dean. You know I'd never forgive myself if you were hurt._

No, Dean didn't know that, and he was pretty sure Sam didn't know it, either. “We're not having a chick-flick moment. That's not what's happening. Here's what we're gonna do. Angels and demons want to fight? Fine. We'll let them have their fight.”

Castiel looked alarmed. “Dean. No.”

Dean ignored him. “You go up and distract the demons, and I'll figure out how to sneak out of this basement. Soon as you hear the Impala's horn, you're going to lead the demons down here, and then run out the wall. If we're lucky, Meg and Castiel will kill each other.”

Castiel's gaze dropped to the floor, and then lifted. “Dean, you can't leave me. You're not that callous.”

If that was true, it was news to Dean. “You've haven't stopped trying to keep me from Sam. You don't want to know how callous I am.”  
  
Sam said, _I guess we've got our plan._

#

Dean tapped the wall with the handle of the axe he'd found under the stairs, looking for a place he could break through to the outside. He tried to ignore the sounds of the fight upstairs and the feel of Castiel's gaze on his back. If he didn't find a way out of the basement, he was going to be stuck with the angel when the demons stormed in.

“Dean.” The urgency in Castiel's voice had nothing to do with orders and everything to do with selfish, needy panic. Dean couldn't blame the guy, since he planned to leave him alone and trapped with demons.

“Shut it, Castiel. You're the reason I can't trust you, and you know it.” Dean tapped another wall. Nope, solid foundation. Maybe if he climbed up on something and checked the wall closer to the ceiling...he spotted some old pails and paint buckets. Maybe he could stack those?

“I will transport you and Bobby safely,” Castiel said. “I can take you to a hospital. You must know that he needs one.”

“And Sam?” Dean didn't let Castiel answer. “We tried a compromise before, remember? Besides, I don't know why you're so worried. You angels can come to Earth, just not in your vessels, right? So, wait until Sam, Bobby and I make a drive for it, and then call down one of your angel buds. You're not worried about burning a bunch of demon eyeballs, right?”

Castiel looked away but continued speaking, like it didn't make a difference if he addressed Dean or the bottom portion of the staircase. “No one would come.”

“Not the most popular dude up there, either? Sounds like someone needs to work on their people skills. Step one: Don't be such a lying dick.”

“My brothers have abandoned me. I will be left to the demons' mercy.” Castiel turned away, as if needing to shield some portion of himself.

Dean had a feeling the demons didn't have much to spare. Still, it wasn't like he had a choice, here. The demons were his enemy, and so was Castiel. Even if Meg was more of a 'let's kill people' enemy, and Castiel was more the type to sit back and watch them die.

Dean winced when he heard a bodies slamming against the basement door. He didn't have time for fireside chats with a lying, bag-of-dicks angel, and every moment he let Castiel run his mouth was another moment he wasted.

Maybe there were storm doors.

“Dean.” Castiel spoke his name as a soft reprimand. “I have been trying to help you. I understand now that my approach was...lacking. But I promise that I have been honest about my end goals. I do want to save you and reverse the damage to the vessels.”

“That's funny, because I've got a demon upstairs who swore up and down that you had something else planned.” Dean hated himself for getting drawn into yet another useless conversation. “What's the deal with the Michael sword? I'm giving you one chance to come clean with me, Cas. This is it, man. Tell me what's going on.”

Castiel swallowed, his gaze going distant. “When angels speak of swords, we mean either the blades we carry or our vessels.”

Dean thought back to Claire Novak. “Vessels are swords?”

“It's a metaphor. Vessels can become weapons in our hands.” Castiel held out his hands, palms up. “I wield Jimmy.”

“Great,” Dean said. “So, this is all about one dude who's supposed to let Michael wear him to the prom? There are billions of Shadows! How the Hell are we supposed to know which one's marked for Michael? And even if we do find this guy, he's still a freaking Shadow! That means Michael can't use him, right?”

“Yes.”

Just 'yes?' Dean rolled his eyes. “How does this tie into the apocalypse?”

Castiel sucked in a breath, then turned to face the opposite wall.

Dean blinked at his shoulder blades. “Dude, you know there's not a camera over there, right? No one's filming your close-up.”

“Lucifer escaped his cage. Michael's destined to put him back in.”

“But he needs a vessel for that?”

“Yes.”

“You're a real yes-man, huh?”

Dean didn't want to think about what all this shit was adding up to. The devil on the loose plus some all-important vessel that was currently three sizes too small for the angel 'destined' to wear it? Dean wasn't much for cop procedurals, but even he could see the motive here. “Let me guess. You think Satan pissed on the meat suits? That way, Michael can't fly down here and shove him back in his kennel?”

Castiel said nothing.

“Cas?”

Castiel turned his body just enough so Dean could make out the edge of his face. “I didn't want to say 'yes' again.”

“Great. Lucy wants to make sure no one uses me to cure anyone.” Not that there was much chance of that on Dean's time frame; another day or two, and he'd be 100 percent, bone-in, grade-A Shadow. “You angels want to make sure that you've got the right pointy sticks to wave at the devil. No wonder I've become the life of the freaking party.”

Castiel's shoulders slumped. Dean was used to the angel looking bigger, more powerful, than his nerdy vessel had any right to look. Now, he looked smaller, like he was just as sad and lost as everybody else.

“You're wrong on one count. It's not the angels, Dean. It's me, and me alone, who has sworn to repair the damages to the vessels. I told you before that our vessels must give us permission before we can inhabit them. Jimmy Novak had one condition, and I swore to it. I promised that no harm would come to his family. But in the course of my last mission, I was ordered to abandon my vessel and return to Heaven.”

“You disobeyed.”

It looked like Meg told some truths, too.

“No,” Castiel said. “I abandoned Jimmy. My orders came first.”

“But you're here now?”

Castiel faced Dean. “I hadn't been gone long enough for Jimmy to become a Shadow. He hadn't even begun the process.”

If Castiel had told the truth about Anna–and there was a big 'if' there–disobeying meant torture or death. Dean tried to reconcile the thieving, lying angel that had become the bane of his existence with 'risks his life to help some human kid.' The two sides weren't exactly lining up.

Castiel looked tired–almost as tired as Dean felt. “I intend to keep my promise.”

The demons yelled something and renewed their efforts to break down the door. Dean heard wood splinter; it sounded like Bobby had more than one axe.

“Shit,” Dean said.  
  
Castiel nodded toward a pile of crates stacked up to the ceiling. "There is a storm door. Go through there. I cannot do much from the trap, but my presence should provide a distraction. If you take Bobby now, you should get a few seconds' head start. Get to your car and drive. Don't go to the local hospital. Meg will look for you there."

Dean pushed aside some of the crates, revealing a small storage room with a storm door slanted into the ceiling. “You're helping me, now?”

“They can't kill me. You must go, Dean, before the demons gain entrance.”

Dean stared into Castiel's face, trying to see the trick, here. The angel looked composed enough, but the firelight bouncing off the bottom edges of his face emphasized the circles under his eyes. Which weren't even _his_. Still, Dean felt a little of what he'd felt in his dream–pain, and relief, and choking nothingness. Familiarity. He wanted to trust this guy, but that was _insane_. He didn't understand it.

Yet, Dean found himself doing something really, really dumb. He pried loose a board from the crates and carried it toward Castiel.

“Dean?”

“Shut up. I'm making a gesture here.” Dean laid the board across the flames, breaking the circle.

Castiel froze, going so still it was scary.

“You coming or not?”

Castiel reached out.

Dean felt it again–the electricity that wasn't electric. He had a moment to consider himself wholly fucked, but then he was in the front seat of the Impala, his hand already turning the keys in the ignition.

They were outside of Bobby's house, which was still surrounded by demons. Dean could see their shadows through the windows; their heads bobbing around the rusted junkers crowding the back lot. No sign of hellhounds, but it wasn't like he could see those, anyway.

He looked into the rear-view mirror and saw an angel and an unconscious Bobby.

“I can't transport Sam,” Castiel said. “You'll have to honk.”

#

Everyone looked small and frail in hospital beds, and Bobby was no exception. At least he was alive. For a long minute, when Dean was blaring the Impala's horn and Sam was blurring toward the car and demons were everywhere–freaking _everywhere_ , like ants at a picnic–and Castiel was sitting as cool as anything in the back seat, watching the demons with barely any expression at all...Dean had figured they were doomed.

Then Sam seeped through the car door with a _What the hell?_ at the sight of Castiel, and Dean hit the gas and flew past the demons, while Castiel told them that it would be safer to take Bobby to the hospital in Dell Rapids, and somehow, they were out on the open road, and it was them versus time.

Now, Bobby was unconscious and post-op, and it killed Dean to think he might not make it. It was Jess all over again, except different. He couldn't say whether one was better or worse than the other, since it was the same basic principle at work: When Dean Winchester entered your life, you got caught in crossfire. It was a fucking natural law, right up there with that stuff about actions and reactions and gravity.

Dean heard the rustle of wings and turned. Castiel stood in the doorway.

“Can you do anything for him?” Dean could guess Castiel's answer, but he needed to ask.

“If I was at full strength, I could heal him.” He approached the bed and set his hand on Bobby's forehead. Bobby twitched and sighed, and for one, stupid moment, Dean thought maybe the angel had pulled a miracle.

Then, Castiel opened his mouth. “He'll be more comfortable now. To do anything else would be beyond my current abilities.”

“Because you disobeyed when you came back?”

“We shouldn't discuss these things here.” Castiel's lips pressed into an impatient line, but his stare was way more than that. It was remote and close and sad, with the barest touch of pleading. It said things Dean didn't and didn't want to understand.

“Why? Because it's not safe? Newsflash, Cas. _I'm_ not safe.”

Castiel frowned, as if he needed a beat to follow Dean's thinking. “You didn't cause this.”

“I went to Bobby for help. That's on me.”

“You are culpable for your actions. That doesn't make you responsible for everything.”

Dean changed the subject. “We have a lot to talk about, huh?”

Castiel didn't respond, apparently fascinated by the drip-drip-drip of Bobby's IV.

“Castiel. _Cas_.” At that, he shot Dean a look that would've made a smarter man back down.

“I thought me saving your ass and you not leaving Sammy and Bobby to die was the start of a new thing where you weren't trying to play me. Don't tell me the whole 'don't leave me here, I'm the only angel who wants to help' thing was a steaming pile of bull.”

“It wasn't. I...didn't think you would release me, no matter what I said.”

“Yeah, well, me neither.”

Castiel actually seemed a little lost, and that's when Dean remembered that he was the only angel who felt any responsibility for the humans that got hurt on his watch. “I didn't expect compassion. It seems incongruous with what I know of you.”

If he knew even half of the story, _incongruous_ didn't begin to cover it.

Dean chewed his lip, picking up a faint trace of blood that he didn't remember bleeding. “Cas, if you're with me and Sam, you have to be _with us_. You get that? There's no more dicking us around or trying to separate us. No more lies or secrets–not if they're about this Shadow thing, or the Michael sword, or _us_. I'm in this for Sam. Without Sam, I'm not in this.”

“I'll meet you and Sam at the car. I can't heal Bobby, but I'll do my best to keep him concealed.”

It sounded like Cas was agreeing to something anyway, and Dean was too tired to push for more. “Do you think the demons will come after Bobby, if Sam and I aren't here? Shouldn't they be too busy chasing us?”

“That seems like a poor thing to hope for and a foolish thing to count on.”

“Ain't it all?”

#

Sam was slumped way, way down in the passenger seat, so no one would catch a glimpse of his big, smoky ass and wonder why Shadows had taken a sudden interest in classic cars.

_How's Bobby?_ Sam asked, first thing. Dean had come out a couple times to give his little brother updates, but he knew it was killing Sam that he couldn't come in and check on Bobby himself. Dean hadn't bothered telling Sam about his issues talking to the hospital staff. What he couldn't see with his own eyes would become evident soon enough: Dean wasn't getting any clearer. 

“So far, so good. He's come out of surgery alright, but the doctors won't know for sure until he wakes up.”

_We're not going to be able to stick around until then, are we?_

“No. Castiel's working some mojo to make him harder to find, but I think the best thing we can do for him is to put miles between us.”

Sam's eyebrows popped up. _You left Bobby alone with Castiel?_

“He's not gonna hurt him, Sam.” Dean turned the ignition.

_Are you sure? I know he saved our asses back there, but I don't think that means he's trustworthy. There's still a lot we don't know about him._

“He disobeyed to save a kid, because he promised the poor bastard he's wearing that he wouldn't let anything happen to his family. From what I can tell, he's lost a lot that he didn't have to.” Dean wet his lips. “I'm not saying I'm ready to gay-marry the dude, but we're in over our heads, Sammy, and I think Cas'll be more help than Meg.”

_Do you think he'll actually help?_ There was something odd in Sam's tone. He was actually asking what Dean thought, like his addict older brother's opinion actually counted for anything. 

“I don't know why, and I don't know if I can trust it, but I went with my gut before, and we got out okay. I think I'm going to keep on going with it.” Dean waited for Sam to explode and remind him that Dean's gut had a pretty shitty track record.

_Okay._

Dean blinked at his brother's acceptance, at least until Sam continued,  _If you think Castiel's on the up and up, I'll believe you._

“You're kind of freaking me out, Sam.”

_Do you think Bobby–I mean, Meg–was telling the truth about the Michael thing?_

“I don't know the identity of Michael's vessel.” Castiel had zapped himself into the back seat.

Dean jumped. “Jesus, Cas. Warn a guy.”

 _Your gut couldn't go with someone a little less creepy?_ Sam glared at Castiel, even if Dean was the only one who could see it. _We don't even know who's supposed to wear me, and, as far as I can tell, I'm the only Shadow who can still communicate._

“So a telephone survey's out. There's gotta be a way to find out what vessel goes to who.” Dean pulled out of the parking spot, not because he knew where he was going, but because he needed to move. “How'd you know Jimmy was your man, Cas?”

“I knew because I can't not know.” He'd adopted that haughty angel tone again.

“Great. Any way you can tell who's supposed the wear the other Shadows? What about Sam, here? Who's supposed to wear him? John Travolta?”

Disapproving blue eyes flashed in the rear-view mirror.

“Is there anyone who can help us find the Michael sword? Any other angels we can summon? This can't be _it_. We're not giving up just because I'm almost a Shadow, Bobby's in a coma and our only ally is on the wrong side of Heaven.”

Castiel froze. It wasn't exactly an unusual look for him.

_Is he okay?_ Sam asked. 

“I don't know. Castiel? Cas? You still with us?”

“I just experienced revelation.”

_Is that angel-talk for 'I had an idea?'_

“No, Sam. It means that I know where we need to go.” Castiel looked out the window, and it seemed like he was seeing more than just cars. “Turn left.”  
  
###  



	8. Chapter 8

“Here. The one with the bicycle,” Castiel said, in what Dean could only hope was the last direction he'd ever get from Angel GPS.

He'd been driving for six, six-and-a-half hours, in a more or less straight shoot down 81. Castiel had barely talked except to point out the occasional turn. Sam had decided not to speak much at all around Cas, which left Dean with Led Zep and his own thoughts, except angels were psychics, so it's not like he did a good job keeping those private. All in all, it was a miracle that they'd managed the drive in almost-peace.

Dean was pretty sure that Cas would have preferred to zap them all there. He was a little afraid to ask why he hadn't. Dean suspected it was a lost mojo thing, not Castiel developing a yen for road trips.  
  
He pulled next to the curb and cut the engine.  
  
The bicycle was more like a rusted pile of old bike parts half-grown into tangled shrubbery. It rested in a heap of other old, rusty things, which had been piled in a small patch of front yard. They poured over the bottom of a ridiculously steep set of tall, black steps, which looked like the soundest part of the house. The rest was falling apart in a ramshackle sprawl of splintered boards and loose shingles.

 _Who lives here?_ Sam asked.

Dean noticed a duct-taped window pane. “From the look of the place, I'm guessing the Benders.”

_Who?_

“Uh, I think some made-for-TV horror movie. You know me and motel cable.”

Castiel poked his head over the bench seat, right between Sam and Dean, like a freaking Whack-a-Mole. “It will be easier to explain when we're inside. Allow me to go first.”

He closed the door with just enough gentleness that Dean didn't have to yell at him–maybe mind-reading was good for something, after all–and death-marched to the front door. At least he hadn't teleported there.

_I don't like this._

“Yeah, well, I'm fresh outta other ideas, and I'm pretty sure you are, too. Besides, I don't think Cas would drive us all the way out here just to spirit me off.”

_I said I'd trust you on him. Give me twenty-four hours to forget all my promises, will you?_

Dean chewed his lip and didn't respond. He wasn't going to touch that promises thing with a ten-foot pole, and not just because Sam clearly wasn't trusting Dean on the Cas issue, no matter what he said.

After a couple seconds of tense silence, Sam shook his head.  _Sorry. I didn't mean to snap. It's just...it's a lot. I never thought I'd see you again. If I did, I thought...I don't know what I thought.”_

Dean felt tired. But maybe he wasn't tired enough, considering that he'd been driving for the past ten hours. He watched Castiel ring the doorbell.

_I'm worried that we're spinning in circles._

“I know what you mean.”

_I'm sorry, you know. About saying that I'd always be there, and then not talking to you the whole time you were in prison, and then kicking you out of my life. That…I shouldn't have done that._

Dean's vision blurred, and not just because he was turning Shadow. “You were in the right Sam.”

 _I wasn't_. Sammy could be so freaking earnest, especially when he was wrong about something.

When your brother was the sort of asshole that broke other people's legs for a living, you didn't invite him home every Christmas. Sam didn't know everything Dean had done for Alastair. Neither did the Feds, which was why Dean had only gotten the two years in prison, plus all that unfinished probation.

But Sam knew enough to _know better_ :His mistake hadn't been distancing himself from Dean when his gambling habit had become a problem or taking off for Stanford the first chance he got. It hadn't been refusing to visit Dean in prison or ignoring his AA apology letter.  
  
It had been picking him up the day he got out, saying that he wanted to start over, giving Dean a _home_ with him and Jess.

“I was sliding before the fire, you know. Except I'm pretty sure you can't slide back if you never stopped.”

Sam's silence said maybe he hadn't known, which made Dean feel even shittier.

Three days before the fire, he'd combed the Impala's seats looking for a couple dollars in loose change, so he could make the minimum bet at a blackjack table. A week before then, he'd stolen and pawned a necklace from Jess and Sam's bedroom. They had kept it locked, like that would stop Dean. Jess didn't wear much jewelry, so he figured he could win a few hands, get the necklace back from the pawn shop and replace it before she ever knew it was gone.

He had won big that night. He'd just lost even bigger the next. Dean knew he was supposed to be hooked on the high of winning, but sometimes he thought it was the losing that revved his motor. After a big loss, everything snapped into focus, because he had to win. There was no such thing as a steady ride–just the thrill of the coaster.

But he couldn't say any of that. Not to Sam. Not _now._

“You never should've taken me in,” Dean said. “Let's just leave it there. Okay, Sammy?”

The Sam he'd known would've punched him or at least bitched him out. This one looked out over the dashboard, a stubborn clench to his not-jaw. _You're my brother._

“Yeah, well, I wasn't yours, not back then.”

_Why can't you just admit that you're mad at me?_

Dean didn't have any way to respond to that, so it was just as well when a high-pitched noise split the air. He looked through the window and saw a scrawny dude in a bathrobe crumpling at Castiel's feet.

_Whoa. Is your angel assaulting the town pervert?_

“Thank fuck,” Dean said.

_What?_

“Let's go, Sam.”

#

“Um, is this LARPing or something?” asked Castiel's 'revelation.'  
  
"What's that?" Dean looked at Sam, who shrugged.  
  
The guy in the bathrobe continued speaking, “Because I think you've taken it a little far, with the breaking and the entering, and, um, dragging a Shadow into my house. Is it supposed to be a demon or something? Like with the black smoke?”  
  
His place didn't look any nicer on the inside. Grime covered everything but the computer print-outs scattered around the desk, which was smack in the middle of the living room. Dean hadn't seen so many discarded beer cans since he'd stopped crashing sorority parties.  
  
 _Did he just ask if I'm a demon?_ Sam made a scandalized face. _Wait. He knows about demons?_  


The man curled up tighter on the couch, so only his nose stuck out over a tattered edge of blanket. He seemed to keep forgetting that Dean was there.

“I don't know what that is,” Castiel said, almost nicely. “But we aren't breaking and entering. I rang the bell.”

 _Forcing our way into the house is totally cool, then. I really hope this street isn't part of a neighborhood watch._  
  
“Does it look like the kind of street with a neighborhood watch?” Dean asked. “You saw the crap in his yard.”

_You're thinking of a homeowner's association._

“Same difference.”  
  
 _Not really._  
  
Another whimper.

The dude didn't look much better than his digs. He was short, even compared to people who weren't Winchesters. Facial hair tufted over his chin. He probably hadn't washed that bathrobe in a month or three. Dean didn't want to think about the stained wife-beater and boxers he wore underneath the robe. It was early yet, but Dean got the impression that the guy wore pajamas all day, every day, because clothes were only for the sane people.

Dean glanced through the printed pages on the desk. He stopped when he read his name. And Castiel's. In the same freaking sentence, on the same freaking page, as written by some complete stranger.

“Don't,” the blanket said. “Those need another pass.”

Dean glared at it. “What are you? Some kind of spy? How are you writing about me and Cas?"

 _He's writing about you?_ Sam grabbed a bound manuscript and started flipping through its pages.

“What? No!” The man jolted, his blanket falling off his shoulders. Except something in Dean's gaze made his sink right back into the couch with a miserable, meek expression.

Oh, so _now_ he could see Dean.  
  
Dean read aloud, “'The angel's azure orbs smoldered as he seemed to look straight into Dean's soul.' What the Hell's 'azure?'”

_That's your only question? It means blue, Dean. Blue_ . Sam waved his manuscript.  _This one says you went to Hell. And I'm sleeping with some demon named Ruby.  
_

“Um, what's it doing?” asked bathrobe guy.

“He's talking to the Shadow. Sam.” Castiel told him. “I apologize. I should have made better introductions. These are the Winchesters. Sam and Dean. I am Castiel, an angel–.”

"–of the Lord." The man scratched nervous fingers through his beard. “So, um, are you here for my autograph?”

Dean sighed and turned to Sam. “Is the sex at least hot?”

_I'm drinking her blood._

Dean spluttered, trying to get that image of vampire-Sam out his head. “Cas! What is this?”

The angel's eyes _were_ pretty blue. "Our protection. His name is Chuck Shurley."  


Chuck _meeped_ when Dean pointed at him, like he'd just popped out of nowhere. “Him? He's supposed to protect us?”

Castiel looked ridiculously pleased, considering he barely knew how to move his face. “He's a prophet of the Lord. If a demon comes anywhere near him, an archangel will descend.”

_I'm guessing that's bad for demons?_

“Archangels are Heaven's most powerful weapons. That would be bad for everyone here who isn't Chuck.” Castiel focused on Dean, for some reason. “Don't threaten him.”

Chuck couldn't seem to decide where to look–at Sam or Cas, or at anywhere but Dean. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. How do you guys know any of this? The Castiel books weren't ever–but I guess maybe online spoilers–and I didn't even tell my editor about the prophet thing! You can't write yourself into your own story as a _prophet_!”

_ Books? This crap got published?  _

Dean just wasn't sure how Castiel's definition of 'protection' worked. “I thought Heaven hated you, us, whatever. How come no one's descending now?”

“We haven't registered as a threat.” Castiel didn't smile, but he looked relieved.

 _Wait,_ Sam said. _Did Cas know about the creepy crap literature?_

“No, Sam. I just knew there was a prophet nearby. That his prophecies concern you two is simply...serendipitous.” But there was this warm, almost grateful glow in Castiel's eyes, and Dean had seen enough inmates find Jesus to know when someone was thanking the Big Guy upstairs. 

“Yeah, I'm not so sure I believe in coincidences, Cas. His name just popped into your head? Just like that?” Dean wasn't sure he bought the idea of an archangel body guard, but he'd always been able to tell when Castiel was lying through his vessel's teeth, and he wasn't getting that vibe now.  


Castiel nearly smiled at the quaking couch-lump. “I know the names of all the prophets. We've never met, Chuck, but your name has been seared into my mind since time immemorial. I am honored to meet you.”

Awesome. Dean got 'Your brother's been erased from existence' and 'Come with me, if you want to live.' But one look at this guy had Cas practicing his curtsy?

“You guys have really done your research,” Chuck said. “Possibly through illegal means. Are you sure you don't want those posters? I swear the publisher sent me a ton.”

 _I, uh, I don't think he's buying it. Not that we can really blame him._ Sam waved at Cas. _You could zap him someplace? Like the kitchen?_

“Don't zap him around," Dean said. "I haven't taken a dump since you pulled that stunt at the diner." Then again, that might be the Shadow thing.

“Very well.”

The room went dark.  
  
For a moment, Dean thought some light bulbs had gone out, but it was the sunlight coming through the windows that had dimmed. Only the cloud cover wasn't passing so much as building: it got darker and darker, like the sky before a tornado.

_Is Cas doing this? He's doing this, right?_

All the air in the room _prickled_.  
  
Dean's skin goosebumped. Even with the staring and that weird, alien growl, it was way too easy to forget exactly what surged beneath Castiel's skin. He was old, he was powerful, and he was scary as fuck.  
  
The lamp by the couch spluttered, sparked and went dead.  
  
“Cas? C'mon man. Don't do anything crazy.”

Lightning flared.  
  
Thunder sounded.

 _Oh my God,_ Sam said, except 'oh my angel' was more like it.

Because that's when Dean saw them: giant, splayed shadows moving on the wall behind Castiel. _Wings_. Those were the shadows cast by an enormous pair of invisible wings. They looked huge and unkempt and nothing like the demure, fluffy things that appeared on Valentine's Day cards.  
  
The sight sparked something similar to what he'd felt in his dream when Castiel had touched him. Recognition. Fear. Maybe–maybe that's just how it was, with angels. But something told Dean it was bigger than that, that whatever he felt, it was because of _Castiel_.

He clamped a hand over his shoulder.

The light returned to normal. The lamp crackled back to life, except Castiel must have misjudged something, because two seconds later, the bulb cracked in a sharp spray of glass.

Castiel looked frayed. Maybe controlling the weather had taken something out of him. “Chuck. Please help us before Dean fades.”

#

“I can't believe this,” Chuck kept mumbling, “I've lost it. I've finally lost it.” He'd only moved from the couch once in the past hour, and that was to fill a mason jar with ice and cheap whiskey. He gripped that thing like it was his one and only lifeline.

“You and me both, buddy.” Dean flipped through a paperback called _The Kids are Alright_. At least the title wasn't so bad.

“What's wrong with your face?” When Dean ignored his question, Chuck shivered and went back to contemplating his drink. “My fictional characters are talking to me, and I'm upset because they look _wrong_.”

“Hey, who you calling fictional? You didn't make me up. You don't even have me right.” Dean went back to thumbing pages. The story had him, Sam and Bendy Lisa, but he hadn't seen Lisa in ten, eleven years. He'd definitely never visited her in Cicero or met her kid (did she really have a kid?), and that was far from the least factual thing in the book. “Hey, Cas. If this is supposed to be a prophecy, how come Chuck's gotten almost everything wrong?”

“I don't know.” Castiel frowned down at a half-open manuscript.

Sam shot Chuck a pointed look.  _Maybe the prophecies got mixed up on the way to his brain. He doesn't exactly seem stable._

“That's impossible.” Castiel set his manuscript on the table. Dean got a glimpse of the title: _The Rapture_.

“What isn't?” Dean asked. “Two weeks ago, I didn't believe in angels and demons.”

Castiel's look clearly said, 'Two weeks ago, you were an ignorant ass.' “The visions come from the top tiers of Heaven. They're not suggestions. They're fixed. Immutable.”

“What is written cannot be unwritten.” Chuck drained what was left in his glass. “What?” he said, when Castiel's eyeballs smoldered at him. “I wrote that book a year ago.”

 _You what?_ Like Dean, Sam had gone for the paperbacks. He'd been reading one called _Home_.

“Well, someone's been muting them, because this ain't me.” Dean held up his book, so everyone could get a glance at the Fabio-like dude holding a swooning, dark-haired chick.

“No. It's not.” That was definitely Castiel's troubled blank stare.

 _You already wrote this book? Dean, he says he already wrote this book._ Dean didn't have to see lines in Sam's forehead to know it was crinkled. _He actually has a lot of_ _things_ right _. Mom died in the books; she died in real life. Same–same with Jess. It was a fire both times, too. Dad raised us, kinda, and I left for Stanford on a scholarship. I recognize a lot of the people. Missouri, for one, and Bobby and Ellen. It's just all the hunting stuff that the books have wrong._

Dean knew that wasn't true. “Did I still kill Jess? If not, they're wrong on a few other things.”

Sam seemed to struggle for a moment. _You didn't kill her, Dean._

Dean fumbled with his book, wondering if that meant 'in the books' or 'ever.' It wasn't something he wanted to talk about. He didn't need his whole past rewritten because he and Sam were stuck together while they tried to fix this thing. He wasn't going to pretend he'd never done anybody wrong.

_Just ask him about the books. Ask him how far he's written._

Dean cleared his throat. “Chuck.”

Chuck stared straight ahead. His hands shook.

_Dean?_

“Give it a moment, Sam. I think he's in shock or something.”

Castiel stared at Dean, mostly because that's all he ever did, but his words were clearly meant for Chuck. “You said that you've written the part where you met me, as well as an explanation of your own prophecy. What did you mean?”

“The book where Sam and Dean show up on my doorstep? You tell them that I'm a prophet, and everything I write happens because it's ordained by Heaven. There weren't any Shadows in my version, though. Just Lilith and Raphael.”

“I see.” But Castiel mostly seemed puzzled. “Why was Lilith involved?”

“Sam was trying to make a deal to stop the apocalypse. Do you guys really want to hear what happened? It looks like I'm only, like, 10 percent correct on any of this. I could give you all the wrong information.” Chuck twisted his fingers together, like he was working a cat's cradle without the yarn.

Dean glanced at Sam, who looked miserable enough to actually know what was going on. _Want to? No, I don't think so. But since when does that matter?_

“Sam would make a deal with a demon? What did he have to do with the apocalypse?” Castiel asked.

Dean got up and headed for the kitchen. Chuck had left the bottle on the counter, so Dean grabbed a dark-colored glass from a dirty-looking drying rack and carried them both into the living room. He leaned against the wall and poured himself a drink.

“Well, him and Dean. It was both their fault and not, uh, because the whole universe was kinda leading them to it. I mean, even going back to their parents and the Cupid, and the whole thing with Azazel and his special kids...and you don't know what the Hell I'm talking about.” Chuck took another swallow from his glass, except Dean had been watching him nurse that thing for awhile now and knew there was nothing left.

“Just spit it out, Chuck.”

Chuck didn't seem to realize he'd spoken, so Dean shrugged and gulped down his own drink. It wasn't too rough going down.

Castiel took a gentler tack. “I don't know how much you know about the angels and their vessels, or the Shadows. But we are trying to save a great number of people, and we're running out of time.”

Chuck's eyes flitted around the room without falling on the Winchesters. “Dean and Sam started the apocalypse. They're the vessels.”

“The prophecy. The Righteous Man.” Castiel appeared half-frozen.

“Yeah.”

_What vessels? What does he mean? How could Dean and I have started the apocalypse?_

Castiel closed his eyes. “Sam, you're the Michael sword. The prophecy requires two brothers to fight to the death. Michael and Lucifer. And...their vessels.

 _I'm Michael's vessel? As in, he has to wear me to kill Satan?_ Sam's voice sharpened with horror. _Wait, but that makes Dean–_  
  
"Lucifer's," Castiel said. "Dean is Lucifer's."  
  
That one was a Hell of a lot easier to believe. Except Dean remembered what Meg-as-Bobby had told them: _It's not like I've got a direct line to Heaven, but the reports I've gotten from hunters in the field fit with what the lore says about the apocalypse. Or, it did, right up until the Shadows showed up and everything stopped._

But they'd already dismissed that, because 1) it was Meg saying it and 2) it didn't make any sense. Maybe Michael needed a vessel to put Lucifer back in his cage, but Lucifer didn't need one to mess things up on Earth. He had demons to do his bidding. He could immolate eyeballs via streaking, and that sounded like the sort of thing Satan would enjoy.

The apocalypse shouldn't have stopped just because Lucifer couldn't get to Dean. Also, he should've been able to get to Dean. He'd been just fine until Sam.

“Oh, uh...” Chuck started.

Sam's words rushed out of him. _But why didn't Lucifer use Dean earlier? He just started turning into a Shadow! Lucifer could have done anything he wanted with Dean this whole past year–_  
  
Except a million years ago, Castiel had told Dean that angels needed permission slips from their meatsuits. Then again, who said the rules applied to Lucifer?

“Um, I think there's, um, I mean, that's not...” Chuck continued to stammer.

“No, this isn't right.” Castiel's breath hitched, and it was more emotion that Dean had ever heard from the guy. “I have not been aiding _Lucifer_.”

Chuck dropped his glass. It didn't break. Instead, it clanged and rolled, scattering half-melted ice. “ _Dean_ is Michael, okay? Sam belongs to Lucifer! The older, obedient brother fights the younger, rebellious one. It's symmetry!”

 _Symmetry?_ Sam asked. And then, _Wait,_ I'm _Lucifer's vessel? How does that make any sense?_

Dean would've been insulted, if he hadn't shared Sam's shock. Dean being Lucifer didn't make any sense, logistically speaking. Sam as Lucifer was just freaking insane!  
  
He looked at Castiel, waiting for the angel to tell Sam just how crazy that was.

Instead, Castiel's whole body drooped. The look he gave Dean was sad and borderline apologetic.

He believed this crap.

Dean found his voice. "I'm the one who chopped thumbs and broke legs for Alastair. How could _Sam_ be Lucifer's sweater vest? He's never stepped a foot out of line. Not ever.”  
  
Chuck spoke up. "It's the bloodline. John Winchester served as Michael's vessel in _The Song Remains the Same_ , so Dean's got that in him. Sam would've, too, except he drank demon blood as a baby and there was that mess with the psychic kids. He's Lucifer's true vessel. He can fit into other people, but they kind of...fall apart."  
  
"Gross," Dean said.  
  
 _Why was I drinking blood as a baby?_ Sam asked. _Make that ever._

Castiel nodded at Chuck. “The same rules apply to every angel, regardless of rank. Lucifer and Michael must use vessels belonging to a specific bloodline–the Winchesters', apparently–though, with Lucifer, certain things would have to happen to strengthen the vessel. Drinking demon blood would be the easiest method, although there are a few other ways.” Castiel didn't elaborate, so maybe the other options were even worse. "Michael and Lucifer couldn't use their bodies without permission."  
  
"Dean and Sam are refusing to say 'yes.' That's why the apocalypse hasn't happened in the books yet. But if something different is happening in real life...well, some angels are a lot looser with that concept than you," Chuck said. "No offense or anything."

_Dean, Meg told us that the apocalypse stopped because Lucifer couldn't get a vessel. What if this whole thing, with me being a Shadow, what if it's a_ good _thing? Dean!_ There were probably tears in the smudges of Sam's eyes.  _We can't fix this. At least, we can't fix me._

“Wouldn't you remember drinking demon blood? That's not you-you! That's _book_ -you!” Dean gestured toward the desk and its scattered pages. “Why are you pretending this crap is real?”

“Chuck conveys God's plan,” Castiel said, like that was anything close to a real answer.

Dean grabbed the nearest book and held it up. The cover showed Fabio-Dean and Fabio-Sam in a sea of florescent green question marks. “God's plan for who exactly? These douchebags don't exist.”  


_Maybe Heaven wants to stop the apocalypse. Maybe it destroyed all of the vessels, so there was nothing left for Lucifer to use._

Sam wasn't listening, because Sam was an idiot sometimes.

"How can Heaven beam down honest-to-God prophecies about a _fictional_ universe? Does that sound even a little bit right to you?”

Castiel looked up at the ceiling, and then at Dean. “No. It doesn't sound right.”

“Great. Thank you, Cas.”

“The theory has its flaws, but Chuck is a prophet. This is divine prophecy. It seems like something must be wrong, but I–I don't know that I can trust my own judgment. I don't understand enough of this.” Castiel gave Dean a hopeless, almost haunted look, and then– _clap_.

That was that. The angel had left the building.

_Do you think he's coming back?_ Sam asked.

“Do I look like I've got him on a leash?” Dean tossed the book at Chuck, expecting him to catch it. He dodged it with a squeak. At least he had his attention. “Hey, you. What does 'the apocalypse' really mean, anyhow?”

Chuck cringed. “Oh. It's...well, supposed to end with Lucifer and Michael meeting for an epic battle. From there, it kinda depends who wins. Best case scenario: Michael wins the fight with Lucifer, and only some of the world dies horribly.”

Dean almost snarled. “And the worst case?”

But he knew. Of course he freaking knew.

“The whole world dies horribly, and Satan rules the world. It's _the apocalypse_. For what it's worth, the Sam and Dean from my books are trying to put a stop to it.” Chuck rubbed his eyes.

 _Christ, Dean. What if it's true?_ Sam was trembling or vibrating or something. It was weird, like a hum around a power line more than actual movement.

“It's not.”

_But what if it is?_

“Easy.”

_Easy? You think there's an easy, here?_

“Jesus, Sam! It's not complicated. If fixing you starts the apocalypse–which it doesn't, because that's crazy talk–that just means we gotta find a way to save you without starting it!”

Chuck really _looked_ at Dean, though his twitching eyelids said it wasn't easy. “Holy crap. You're Dean Winchester.”

Dean didn't know what that was supposed to mean, so he ignored it. “I guess we might as well figure out what the books are saying about this crap. That way we know we know what's totally wrong.” Except  there were piles and piles of books and manuscripts and loose pages. “Any chance you got these in Spark Notes?”  
  
###  



	9. Chapter 9

“This is really weird for me,” Chuck said, over two hours later.  
  
Dean looked up from his current book. “Uh-huh.”  
  
Chuck squinted at him. “I guess it's probably weirder for you. Or maybe Sam.”  
  
 _It's equally weird for everyone._ Sam spoke before Dean could get in a 'Ya think, Einstein?'  
  
The Winchesters and the maybe-prophet had arranged themselves in a semicircle in Chuck's living room. Sam and Dean were reading the books and manuscripts, or trying to, while Chuck kept telling them he could just 'explain the narrative.'  
  
The problem with that, though, was that he jumped all over the place. One minute, he was saying something about Alastair being a demon from Hell, which jived just fine with Dean's memories. The next, he'd somehow jumped to psychic kids killing each other, a yellow-eyed demon and Dean time-traveling to visit his dead mom: “Mary made a deal with the YED to save John. She wasn't supposed to go into the nursery...that's where she caught the YED, sorry, yellow-eyed-demon, I mean, Azazel, feeding Sam his blood. That's why he got the visions later. Oh, did I forget to mention that he gets visions? He does, but then they stop, but then he starts ganking demons with his mind."  
  
 _Um. What does this have to do with the apocalypse or the vessels?_ Sam had asked, before Chuck launched into a story about some dude named Zachariah making Castiel do drugs.  
  
At that point, Dean had announced they were sticking to the books, thanks.  
  
Now, they had been reading for hours. Dean's vision was starting to get blurry. Plus, fake-Sam and fake-Dean were freaking idiots, and they never stopped noticing emerald trees and glimmers of sunlight and other stupid crap. Dean kept flashing back to the Scarlet Letter, which was 95 percent of the reason he'd gone for a GED.  
  
"Fake-me's crying again. What does he have to cry about?” Dean shook the manuscript, like that would knock some sense into the characters. Fake-Dean had it pretty good, as far as he could tell: He had Sam, and Bobby, and his baby, and 'old hunter friends' kept popping out of the woodwork. As far as Dean could tell, all his boo-hooing was over stuff that either couldn't be helped or wasn't fake-Dean's fault in the first place.  
  
Chuck twitched, almost defensive. “His dad died, his brother died, and he went to Hell and started the apocalypse. Sometimes it's other stuff. It really depends where you're reading.”  
  
 _I'm sleeping with a werewolf._ Sam sounded glum. _She seems nice_.  
  
“Sam died?” Dean frowned. "Was it because of sex with a werewolf?"

Chuck waved at Sam and spoke loud and slow. “Uh, Sam? You might want to stick to the manuscripts. The apocalypse storyline didn't start until after Dean went to Hell, and that was the last book I got published.”

“Get back to the part where Sam _died_.”  
  
Chuck scratched the back of his neck. “You both have? But you don't stay dead. So, there's that.”

 _We get better?_ Sam asked, incredulous. _  
_

“What you mean I started the apocalypse?”  
  
“It wasn't your fault? The first time Lucifer was banished to the cage, they put in, well, I guess you might call it a security system. There were hundreds of these seals in place all over the world. To get Lucifer back out, the demons had to break any sixty-six of them.”  
  
Sam set down his book and started looking through the manuscripts. _What kind of dumb system is that? Creating that many extra seals would make it harder to guard any of them._  
  
“We can take it up with the architects later, Sammy.”  
  
 _I just think that's really piss-poor planning._  
  
Chuck continued, oblivious. “But the first and last seals had to be broken, well, first and last. The first one was a Righteous Man sinning in Hell. That was you, Dean. After thirty years of unimaginable torment, you picked up the knife–”  
  
Dean's chest hurt where the hellhound had scratched him.  
  
“–and you started torturing other souls. After that, the demons just had to break another sixty-four, and then the last one, which was Sam killing Lilith.”  
  
 _I didn't understand half of that,_ Sam said. _Who's Lilith_?  
  
“You just gotta look for the symmetry. Fake-me works for Alastair and tortures people and starts the apocalypse. Real-me does that first part, but instead of destroying the whole world, I get my brother's fiancée killed, so he runs me off.”

That, ladies and gentlemen, was the fucking definition of an awkward pause.  
 _  
Do you really want to do this right now?_ Sam didn't even sound pissed. Just tired.  
  
Chuck couldn't hear Sam, though. “That's not how it happened in the books. Jess' death brought you together.”  
  
“Of course it did. Fake-us are one big, happy family.”

 _Dean._  
  
“It's what made Sam leave Stanford and help you look for your dad. Sam wanted to avenge her and your mom, and you wanted to keep your family together. Did I mention that your dad went missing? Anyway, it was all orchestrated by Hell. Well, not your dad. But the rest, definitely.”  
  
The less said about their dad, the better. Except fake-Dad was probably an awesome father who took fake-Dean to ballgames when he wasn't teaching him to shoot cans off of white picket fences.

 _I already apologized. Or, I tried to. You wouldn't accept it. What else do you want me to say?_  
  
Dean slapped his hands on his thighs. “Well, that's different, so it's probably not important. I'm guessing we should focus on what's the same. Maybe that's the stuff you can't change, no matter what.”  
  
Chuck bobbed his head. “Like they're universal constants? I guess that makes sense. As much as any of this does.”  
  
 _D_ _on't ignore me right now. No one else on this planet can even hear me. It's not funny._  
  
Dean grit his teeth before answering Sam. “What's done is done. You needed to do it. The end.”  
  
“You lost me.” Chuck followed Dean's gaze to Sam, and his eyes widened. “Sorry, it's still really weird to think that you're Sam, and that you're sitting there talking and everything.”

Sam waved at Chuck, like he was trying to say there weren't any hard feelings. He turned back to Dean. _It felt like I needed to._ Sam said it honest, and it hurt. _That doesn't mean I didn't miss you, or that I didn't wish I'd done something different. Do you really think I don't know how it started? Dad took off, and you needed to pay for our motels, food and my school supplies. Dad already had you fleecing pool tables. Of course you'd realized you could make more with pool, or ponies, or whatever the Hell else you decided to bet on._  
  
Dean tried to channel Castiel's smiting glare. “Hey, Chuck. Why don't you tell us more about the books? I wanna know all the hero stuff fake-me gets up to. Dude practically wears a cape.”  
  
 _Stop,_ Sam snapped. _Why do you always bring this up? What do you want me to say, Dean? That I hate you? I don't, okay? I never did._  
  
“You know what? I'm going to go get something. From, uh, my bedroom.” Chuck got up and turned away, robe flapping around his skinny legs as he half-jogged toward the stairs.  
  
Sam just looked at Dean, until he couldn't stand the silence anymore.  
  
“I bet and lost your lunch money, and then I shoplifted candy bars so you'd have something to eat. Don't tell me I was doing you a goddamn favor.”  
  
That was before he knew he had a problem, even. He would get down to his last four bucks, and think about the food he needed for Sam, the sixty he would need for another night in a motel. He could scam and con when he needed to, but cold, hard cash was way less risky, especially when all your ID and credit cards were fake. If he got his ass arrested, Sam was on his own.  
  
Dean was good, real good, at cards and pool, and he was smart enough to pick games that relied more on skill than dumb luck. But there was something awesome about betting on a fight or a race, too; in a split-second, he could get himself a grand. He won a lot–enough to buy Sam new clothes and fancy cheese–until he'd lost his head and started taking risks he couldn't afford. Until he'd confused skill with random chance and suckers for the kind of people you didn't cross unless you hated having thumbs.

For a long time, he _had_ told himself he was doing it for Sam; if he won enough, he could buy that kid a month's worth of roof and his weight in freaking vegetables. For a long time after that, he'd told himself he was the only one hurt by his bullshit, like that made it okay. He'd make a year's worth of not-so-shitty salary in a night, and then lose twice as much over the course of the weekend. It was about the thrill, by then, the plunges and escalations. He was at the top, or he was in the dregs, and it all felt the fucking same.  
  
 _You did the best that you could_ , Sam was saying. _You had to carry a lot. I'm sorry I didn't get that when I was a kid._

Dean couldn't stand to hear his own lies spilling from Sam's mouth. “Kids aren't supposed to understand that crap. I was supposed to take care of you, and I did a shit job. You get to hate me for that.”  
 _  
You didn't ask to be sick._  
  
“I've never gotten better. If it weren't for you and this Shadow thing, I'd be doing what I always do.”  
  
Sam sounded shaky. _This whole thing, with me being cut off, and you helping me, even though we both know it's hurting you...it's reminded me of a lot of a stuff. How if it wasn't for me, you would've been fine. Both times, I guess._  
  
"That's the stupidest shit I've ever heard you say. Shut your mouth before you embarrass yourself."  
  
Sam shrugged. _Fake-Dean went to Hell for me. You're not that different._  
  
Fake-Dean wasn't a fucking mess. Fake-Dean hadn't gone to jail or scammed people. He'd probably made every PTA meeting and soccer game and cooked homemade dinners, whenever he wasn't saving chicks from monsters. When Sam went through his monsters under the bed phase, fake-Dean probably offered more than a nightlight and a 'suck it up, Sam,' because he needed to go figure out who he could convince to give him food without also turning him in to the cops.  
  
Dean still remembered, with crystal clarity, what Sam had said to him at Jess' funeral. The look on his face. Sam hadn't just cut him off. He'd wanted Dean dead. He'd fucking  said so: _You're not my brother. I don't have a brother. The next time I see you, you're going to be that guy I choked to death on his own gun._

Now, Sam wanted to take it all back? Get a do-over? Like you could just snap your fingers and forget the past? Dean wished he could see Sam's face, instead of the blurry planes and angles that looked a whole lot like his brother.

Sam hung his head and breathed deep. _I forgive you, for everything. You're my brother, Dean, and I love you. I was in a bad place. I know that's not really an excuse. I never should have said all that. I hope someday you can forgive me, too._  
  
That's when Dean got what this was about.  
  
“There's nothing to forgive.” He had to force the words out.  
  
 _That's not true, and you know it._  
  
“Fine, so killing me would've been kinder. You had your reasons. It's not like you never gave me a chance. You gave me way more than I deserved.”  
  
Dean had tried to go clean. He really had. But he was back to his old tricks before he'd fluffed his new pillows. Soon enough, he was swamped in enough debt to make his back molars float. And he'd owed it all to the same, old crowd. He'd refused to go back to working with them, thinking it didn't matter so much if he got a bullet through his brain.

But Dean hadn't been the one to pay. He hadn't been home. It had just been Jess.  
  
He had tried to go in, when he'd come home and found flames spitting from every window. So had Sam. But the fire had already been too hot–just getting too close had give Dean a first-degree burn on his arm.  
  
 _I don't think I did,_ Sam said, because he had decided he was going to be guilty and that was that. He could be such a freaking stubborn _child_.  
  
“You're not giving up, Sammy. I mean that. We're fixing this.”  
  
That actually seemed to startle Sam. _I want to believe that, Dean. I do. But...look at_ _yourself. We're running out of time, and I have no idea what we should do next. I don't know if_ _we_ should _do anything._  
  
“Don't you dare buy into that apocalypse shit.”  
  
 _There's a connection,_ Sam said. _Even if it's not Lucifer, there's something that made the apocalypse stop. Why wouldn't it be the Shadows?_  
  
“And here I thought you didn't want me to go through that. All that crap about not wishing it on your worst enemy...”  
  
 _No. God, Dean. No. Of course I don't want you like me. I want Castiel to save you. I don't care what the books say. If you were needed for the apocalypse, it wouldn't have stopped. You're like the one vessel we know for sure that doesn't need to be a Shadow._  
  
Dean remembered Claire.  
  
“Look, if we get out of this mess, we'll hug it out like freaking girls. Okay? But I'm not buying the Hallmark card if it means you giving up on being human. You want my forgiveness, you better figure out how to be my brother again.”  
  
Sam looked like a kicked dog. _Dean._  
  
“I can't even see you, man.”  
  
That seemed to end the conversation. Sam picked up another manuscript. He flipped through it, but Dean knew he wasn't reading. “I'm gonna go get some air.”  
  
 _Okay._  
  
Dean walked to the front porch and sank onto the steps. They were too narrow to be comfortable and frozen to boot.  
  
He used to dream about Sam forgiving him. But he didn't want it like this, because Sam was on the verge of giving up. And why? Because of some 'prophecy' that said Dean was a hero and Sam was some kind of Antichrist? If Chuck had gotten that much wrong, how could he be right on anything else?  
  
Dean blinked hard and rubbed his eyes, but that didn't prevent one, measly tear from stinging his check. Freaking books.  
  
“Hello, Dean.” Suddenly, Castiel stood on the bottom stoop. His voice was slurred, and his legs were spread wider than normal, like he didn't trust the ground to stay where it was.  
  
“Where'd you go?” Dean thumbed tears from his eyes, although there wasn't much point in saving face.  
  
“You drink. I decided to try it.” Castiel managed to look accusing, even with most of his face in shadow.  
  
“Word to the wise: You might not want to take your cues from me.”  
  
“ _He_ does.” Castiel lurched forward until he could collapse on the stairs, just a few inches from Dean. “The me from the books. He follows you like a dog.”  
  
Dean tried to imagine Castiel panting at his heels. Or being anything but an alien, scary bastard. “How many have you read?”  
  
“All of them.” Castiel shrugged, managing to look both stiff and drunk. “I like you in the books. I like _the_ you in the books." His frown deepened. "I like book-you.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you're still a dick.”  
  
“Perhaps you haven't read far enough. We become...friends. I rebel for you.” Castiel's expression went tight. Well, tighter.  
  
"As opposed to real life, where you rebelled just because?"  
  
Castiel looked up at the overhang, like it could commiserate. “Just because. Yes, Dean. I condemned myself on a whim."  
  
Dean couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not, but it wasn't like he could deny that the guy was hurting. He'd been kicked out of Heaven by his own family, and all because he'd wanted to save some kid.

“Sorry. I know you were trying to help your vessel's family. That's...good of you.”  
  
“At first I feared that I had, in helping you, aided Lucifer."  
  
"Who says you haven't?" Because that was the fight Dean needed to pick with an angel. He pictured the wings on the wall and suppressed a shudder.  
  
"In the books, Lucifer and Heaven both desire the apocalypse. In this world, Heaven warned me away from helping the Shadows. I don't know what to think. Were my orders aimed at stopping the apocalypse or starting it?”  
  
“I don't know,” Dean said. “But it's stupid that they wouldn't just tell you either way around the time they Shadowed your vessel's kid. 'Hey, Cas, this is how we're saving the world.' Then, you'd never have rebelled to save her.”  
  
Castiel might have smiled. A little. But the expression faded fast.

Dean remembered that five minutes ago, he'd been saying that the stuff that was the same in the book and real life probably couldn't be changed. Castiel rebelled in both universes. In one, he'd done it for Dean. In another, he'd done it for the vessels and Claire. Maybe that meant something. But Dean was just some dumb drunk. He wasn't going to figure it out.  
  
He nudged Castiel's side. “Great, getting drunk just makes you more cryptic. It's supposed to be the opposite. Like, you say all the dumb shit you're really thinking.”  
  
Castiel studied his hands. “Why would you do that? Reveal everything when you drink?”  
  
“When you're _drunk_. And because you stop caring about what will happen if you do.”  
  
Castiel appeared to turn this over. Slowly. He looked so intent it was almost hilarious. “I still care. I shouldn't. I'm not supposed to. Angels–we're not supposed to feel.”  
  
Dean had the horrible thought that Castiel might lean his head against him or something. Less than twenty-four hours ago, the angel had been the enemy, and he wasn't going to get all huggy with the dude just because some dumb book said they were friends.  
  
Castiel flinched, and Dean felt like an asshole.  
  
“Sorry. I'm a jerk.” Dean tentatively gripped Castiel's shoulder, half expecting it to feel as immovable as metal. Mostly, it felt like a shoulder.  
  
“You have strong convictions. It's not the worst trait, in a human.” Castiel shot Dean a furtive, considering look. “What will be the consequences, if I tell you that I don't think you're the Dean in the books?”

Dean dropped his hand. “Nothing?”

“And what if I fear that I am the same Castiel?”  
  
Dean didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure where they stood. “Didn't you just say he does nothing but follow me around? I'd say 'fat chance of that.'”

Castiel leaned forward, just a bit. “I have been irrational. I know exactly what you are, and I know what you have done. You're everything I should despise.”  
  
“Don't hold back or anything.”  
  
“I don't,” Castiel said. “Despise you.”  
  
He was drunk then, after all.

Dean needed to change the subject. “Have you tried asking the other angels about the Shadows? They'd know about Lucifer, wouldn't they?”  
  
“They wouldn't speak to me. My prayers weren't answered. I don't know what to do, Dean. I don't know how to save you. I don't know what saving you would mean. Heaven has forsaken me, or I have forsaken it, and I don't know where to turn.”  
  
“We'll figure it out, Cas.”  
  
“How?” Castiel looked like he really wanted to know, like he thought Dean could come up with a real answer. But Dean wasn't a life guru to the angels. He was _an addict_. He did the same damn things, over and over, expecting his luck to change. With gambling, it both did and didn't.

“We don't gotta choice. That means we'll find a way.”  
  
Castiel huffed. “That seems stupid. You're often stupid, Dean.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you like book-me, and he's not getting into MENSA anytime soon.” Dean tried to smile. “Freaking butterfingers. Did you notice how often he drops his gun?”

“You would never do that?” Castiel ventured. There was a knowing glint there, like maybe he was trying to joke.

“It's only 'shooting shit' 101.” Dean rubbed his own arms. “Look, no one gets to know everything. But we're talking about Sam, and we're talking about Claire, and a whole bunch of other innocent people who don't deserve to be locked into some kind of living Hell. Who cares about the end game? There's a right, and there's a wrong. You know it, too. Why else would you rebel?”

Castiel turned inward. Dean couldn't describe the how, exactly, except that it was some combination of eyes and spine. “Sometimes, I think everything here is wrong.”

That didn't seem dark as fuck or anything.

“Sam's already playing the emo-Goth kid. This team sure as Hell don't need two.”

Castiel's stared straight at him. At this short of a range, Dean felt pinned. “Dean, I have no idea why I rebelled. It wasn't for a cause. It was instinctive. I saw you in that alley, and I had to save you.”

###  



	10. Chapter 10

Dean couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. “What alley, Cas?”

Either Castiel wasn't listening, or he didn't want to answer such a dumb question. But his expression was grave, not impatient or condescending. “I told you I was carrying out a mission on Earth when the Shadows first appeared. What I didn't say is that I was tasked with guarding Sam.”

Dean scrambled to his feet. “What?”

“You have to understand. We receive orders, and we follow them. We are told only what out superiors want us to know. I only know what I was told: I was to follow Sam Winchester, and I was not to interfere.”

Interfere. What the Hell did that mean? _Interfere_.

“You sonovabitch. You weren't trying to stop the vessels from becoming Shadows. You were trying to make sure that Sam stayed one. Or became one. Did you do this? Did you turn Sam?”

“No, of course not. Sam is–” Castiel, it seemed, didn't want to finish that thought. “I don't know what intentions inspired my orders. I'm repeating what I was told, almost exactly as I was told it. Even if I had known then what I know now, I couldn't have stopped Sam from becoming a Shadow. The change was instantaneous."

His eyes, though–that was their guilty flicker.

Dean couldn't hear this. Had Castiel been manipulating him this whole time? Was this thing with Chuck a red herring? He remembered what Meg had said, back when she was driving Bobby's meatsuit: _That angel you're sporting is damaged goods, and he's not on your side_.... _Ask Castiel about the Michael sword. Ask Castiel why he's here._

She had known. That freaking demon bitch had known that Castiel was playing him! Shit. What if she'd been the one telling the truth the whole time? What else had she said? That the angels had created the Shadows?

“Stop it, Cas. I mean it. Don't you dare tell me another freaking lie. You were fucking with Sam? This whole time?”

“I _watched_ Sam,” Castiel corrected. “I traveled with him as he wandered. Until he found you.”  
  
“I saw something in that alley. Right before the noise started. That was you?” Dean stepped back, like he could actually run away from Superman.  
  
Castiel's eyes measured the growing distance between them. "I saw a change come over you. Your molecules. Your _soul_. They–I saw them shift, and I knew they'd begun a process toward dissolution.”

“English,” Dean said. “Stick to freaking English. Are you saying that you saw Sam start to Shadow me?”

“I saw it begin, and I shouted with my true voice. If Sam had not retreated, I might have descended without my vessel. I had to get him away from you before you were destroyed.”

“That thing that was popping my eardrums? That was you?”

“I disobeyed in an instant, Dean. Everything I am insisted that I save you.”

Dean was supposed to believe that _an angel_ took one look at him and decided to rebel? Like that was something that could actually happen? “You were trying to save me from Sam? What about all that shit you've been saying about Jimmy and Claire? How you want to de-Shadowfy the vessels? That stuff about your orders coming from someone other that God? What was all that, Cas? Lies?”

Castiel stood, slowly, but without any lurching or rebalancing. “I did make that promise to Jimmy, and I do want to help Claire. But that wasn't something I could rebel for.”

“I was? Freaking Hell, Cas. What are you? Insane?”

“Possibly." Castiel glowered at him. "You have done horrible things, Dean, things have marked others for Hell. I don't understand why I felt drawn to you. I don't know why I rebelled for you. I don't know how I can feel this...connection. But it is undeniable. Everything I have done, I have done for you. _To save you_.”  
  
Castiel felt _a connection_? What would come next? A fucking proposal?  
  
“That's not why you didn't tell me. You didn't want to say why you were there.”

“I knew you wouldn't trust me. At that point, I did not trust you. How could I have told you everything? There were so many things I didn't understand myself.”

“I needed to help my brother! Jesus Christ. How am I supposed to believe anything you say? Suddenly, I'm supposed to be thanking you for throwing glass at me in that goddamn alley? Right after you tell me that you were there stalking Sam on Heaven's orders? That you rebelled because I'm just that pretty? Maybe Heaven wanted you guarding Sam because it wanted him to be a Shadow. Maybe it wanted that, because it created the damn things in the first place. How am I supposed to believe that you were saving me? How do I know all that angel-shouting wasn't what did this to me in the first place?”

Castiel had the nerve to look _upset_. “If I am what you say, why would I confess?"  
  
Dean didn't know or care. “You're a real piece of work, you know that? You haven't stopped lying through your teeth since we met. Well, I'm done, Cas. I can't be a pawn in whatever sick game you're playing.”  
  
The air punched out of him, and it took him a moment to realize that Castiel had one hand bunched in the fabric near his neck. The other clasped his shoulder, forcing him against Chuck's door. “I am your only ally. You have no one else.”  
  
Dean spoke between gasps. “You come inside, and I'll banish you. Don't you dare come near my brother. I'll find a way to kill you if I have to, and you better believe I mean that.”  
  
He knew he couldn't get away, not from something as strong as Cas. But when he struggled, the angel let him go.

He opened the door and slipped back inside.

Castiel didn't follow.

#

Dean leaned against the door, his heart pounding in his throat. He didn't know what he should do. Grab Sam and high-tail it? Castiel could and would chase him down, if Meg didn't find them first. At least with Chuck, they had the archangel guard–unless Cas had been talking out of his ass about that one, too.

Shit. Dean needed a drink. He needed someone to knock him the fuck unconscious, because this was too much. He couldn't deal with everything. What was he gonna tell Sam? 'That guy I vouched for? I'm thinking maybe he's the reason you're a fucking Shadow in the first place.'

Except, that didn't _feel_ right. Dammit, some part of him still wanted to trust Castiel, because his instincts were shit and also he'd been dream-brainwashed.

His shoulder stung like a bitch. Whatever infection he'd picked up from the hellhound, it had to be spreading. Its claws had nailed him in both shoulders, but more to the top and front. Now, his left shoulder ached all the way to the side of his arm. It would be just his luck if the damn things were poisonous.

Dean found Chuck's downstairs bathroom and splashed cold water over his face. He didn't want to look at himself in the mirror, but of course his eyes slid up to meet his reflection's.

He looked worse.

His skin had lost all of its texture. There weren't any pores or fine hairs. He hadn't shaved since before he'd seen Sam in that alley (Castiel, too. Castiel had been there, too), but he couldn't make out any stubble.

He touched his lips. He still had them, but their lines were less distinct; he almost had to squint to make them out. He could no longer see the exact shape of his nose, and his eyebrows had blended into his skin, so only the thickest parts were visible. Light didn't seem to hit him anymore–either it skipped right over him, or he sucked it in. No wonder people couldn't see him.

Dean met his own eyes–the flat green was more of an olive, now–and he felt his lips twisting.

He took off his outer layers and rolled up the sleeve of his T-shirt, trying to get a better look at the injury. He'd have to take care of the others, too–the cut on his hand, the slice on his arm from when Sam had banished Castiel–

Huh. Maybe this Shadow thing was messing with his eyeballs, too, because that didn't look like a scratch. The marks from the hellhound's claws were still there, but now they crossed through a red-gray, puffy area. When had he gotten burned?

He turned to the side, trying to get a better look.

He had a handprint seared onto his shoulder.  
  
What the fuck? Had Castiel done something to him, on the porch? Or in the dream? Wouldn't he have noticed a third-degree burn before now?

Dean cupped the cold water still running from the faucet and pressed his palms to his face. He shook his head, eyes stinging, and looked again.

It was still there. It still hurt like Hell, except where it went numb toward the center. It was almost the easiest part of him to see; compared to the rest of him, the finger-shaped burns were almost crisp. More than that, the mark seemed substantial, somehow, like it was realer and more solid than the rest of him.

Dean touched the burn, and then gasped when–surprise–it hurt. He grit his teeth and looked in the mirror. The thing looking back was barely him. It was barely _there_.

He punched the mirror. It spiderwebbed beneath his knuckles.

He hit it again. This time, his weird fuzzed-out blood smeared across the glass.

He drew back his arm–

_Dean?_

Suddenly, Sam was in the bathroom, his looming Shadow self just inside the door.

“Dammit, Sam. What if I was taking a piss?”

 _There would have been a lot less noise._ _Shit, Dean, you're bleeding all over. Were you punching the mirror? Why the Hell would you punch a mirror?_ Sam pressed forward, his awful Shadow hands pawing at Dean's arms as he tried to get a better look.

“I'm fine! I don't need a nurse!”

But Sam grabbed his arm and stared hard at his shoulder. _Dean? What is this?_

“What?” Dean craned his head, trying to get a look.

_The burn on your shoulder. When did you get this? Why does it look like a handprint? Was it Castiel? Did he do this to you? Did Meg?_

“What? No! I've had that thing forever.” Dean pushed Sam back. 

_How long is forever, exactly? Because I don't remember that. It can't even be some prison initiation thing, because you made a point of walking around in a towel when you lived with me and Jess. I would've remembered a huge burn on your arm.  
_

Dean couldn't look at his brother, but he was stuck with him in a tiny, grimy half-bath. He stared up at the ceiling, since it was that or the toilet. “It's a burn, Sam. Think. When might I have gotten burned?”

He had tried to go in, when he'd come home and found flames spitting from every window. So had Sam. But the fire had gotten way too hot. They couldn't even get inside, much less make it to whatever room Jess had been in. They'd both been treated for smoke inhalation–and Dean for his burn. A piece of roof had broken off and flown right at him. The nurses had joked that an angel must've reached down and pulled him back, considering the funky shape of the scar. Clearly, they hadn't met many angels.

Except Sam just shook his head. _In the shape of a handprint? Dean, no way. I would've remembered you being treated for something like that._

“You were tied up at the time.” Dean wasn't gonna mention Jess, or how Sam had nearly gone into shock, right before he'd decided to process his grief via murderous rage.

_We're asking Chuck about this. Get you hands under the water, while I see if Chuck has tweezers and rubbing alcohol. And maybe a bathroom-replacement guy._

“Bite me, Sam.”

_If not Chuck, then Cas? I'm pretty sure he just speed-read everything. Plus, he'd probably know if he did that to you._

“I don't think that's the best idea.” Dean turned off the faucet with three vicious twists. 

_Why? I thought you trusted him. What happened?_ In the broken mirror, he saw a kaleidoscope of Sams take in the glass, the blood, Dean's hand. 

“You were right about him, Sam. I'm sorry. I don't know why I thought we could trust him, but it was stupid. Okay? He wasn't helping us, and since he's the one that led us here, I'm starting to think this whole prophet thing is a fucking joke.”

He expected Sam to yell. Or to throttle him. He'd listened to Cas when he shouldn't have, and there was no undoing that damage. They weren't even back to square one–it was like they'd hopped back to square negative-ten.

Sam sighed.  _I'm sorry, Dean._

Why was Sam apologizing? Because he didn't get it, that's why. Dean's dumb mouth decided to give his brother more incentive. “He's been following you since before you became a Shadow, and he's the one that blew up our ears in that alley. For all I know, he did this to us. He sure as Hell didn't stop it. Don't you get it, Sam? I fucked you over. Again.”  
  
He couldn't parse the expression on Sam's face. Dean waited for a blow, for that guy who'd threatened him at Jess' funeral to reappear.

 _The books are still the best lead we have. Let's see if I can find a first-aid kit.  
  
_ "What? That's it?" _  
  
_Sam looked frustrated. He sounded it, too. _We need to get you cleaned up.  
_

As it turned out, Chuck did have tweezers, gauze and rubbing alcohol, which meant Sam stuck Dean under the kitchen light and went to town on his hands. Sam was being careful not to touch him skin-on-skin any more than he had to, but it still wasn't fun. Dean would've demanded that Chuck do it, except he'd gotten kinda green the moment he'd seen the blood, and chances were he'd forget Dean was there halfway though poking at a wound.

At least Chuck had poured Dean a drink, before he'd stopped noticing him again.

“Since when are you this good at stitching things up?” Dean asked, as Sam plopped another piece of glass into a bowl. He'd cut up his punching hand, but at least he hadn't broken any bones.

_What do you mean?_

Dean would've rolled his eyes, but they were already tired from looking at Sam. “It's not like you spent your childhood training to be Florence Nightingale. I remember you crying like a bitch whenever you scraped your knees.”

Sam hummed something to himself, which was annoying. He plopped another piece of glass into a bowl. _You really should ask Chuck about that handprint._

“What's there to ask? We both know where I got it.” Dean fought not to fist his hands, because that would hurt.

Sam started digging for another splinter. His fingers bumped the back of Dean's hand. It was Sam. His own brother. It didn't make a difference; it still felt awful. _Sorry. Dean, did you read the books at all before we met Chuck? Or see them anywhere?_  
  
"I think I'd remember."

_What if you didn't realize they were about us? Our last name isn't in them. Some of the books mention people we know, but there's also some that don't. I mean, yeah, it would've been a big coincidence to have you, me and Dad in an Impala. But maybe it wouldn't have set off any bells?_

“Just spit it out, Sam. Why do you think I might've read the books?” He might not know Sam that well anymore, but it looked like he hadn't gotten any better at fishing for info.

Sam pulled out a final splinter and withdrew.  _I think I got it all. Go wash your hands in the sink, and then I'll put the antiseptic on._

“I can handle that part.”

_But you can't bandage your own right hand. At least, you can't do it well._

Dean grumbled as he went to the sink and turned on the faucet. There wasn't a bar of soap, just a used-up, gray sliver. He ended up pouring himself a dime-sized amount of Dawn. “Dodging questions makes you a bitch.”

_Jerk,_ Sam said, automatically, which made Dean _want_ to smile.  _It was something you said when we got here. About the Benders?_

“The who?” Dean shook off his hands and turned around, only to see Sam sticking his hand in his own middle. He quickly went back to facing the sink. “What the crap!”

_I had it my hand when I when I heard you in the bathroom, and it just kinda happened._ Sam sounded pained, or maybe just embarrassed.  _I think–I think it's like what I did with the demons. But hopefully I haven't turned it inside out or anything._

Something plopped on the counter, right by the sink. Dean saw a paperback book–one of Chuck's.  _The Benders_ . “Dude, I am so not touching that.”

_You knew about them. You mentioned them before we even got here. You said it was something you saw on cable._

Dean shrugged. “I probably just messed up the name of something else.”

Sam looked awful serious for someone who used his innards like a bookshelf. _It isn't just that. Don't you keep getting this feeling? Like something's wrong but you can't put you finger on it?_  
  
"Dude, you're a Shadow, and angels and demons are real. What part of this is supposed to feel right?"  
  
 _That's not what I meant. Haven't you noticed that we remember things differently? I must have stitched you up every other week when we were kids! I remember you sticking legos in the car's vents, and Bobby telling me that if I ever got a cavity, the government would use the filling to transmit my location to spaceships. Why don't you?_

“I think that last one was just Bobby messing with you when you wouldn't brush you teeth.” Dean turned off the faucet and shook the water from his hands. “People remember stuff differently. Especially stuff from when they were kids.”

 _It's more than that.  
  
_ "I don't think so." Except maybe Castiel had found a way to mess with Sam's head, too?  
 _  
What about you, Dean? What about us?  
  
_ What the fuck? _  
_

Dean's chest felt like someone had ripped it open just to stomp on his heart, but that wasn't anything Sammy needed to know or see, so he faced him like normal. “ What's that supposed to mean? Bobby already told me it's weird for me to give a shit about anything. I don't need to hear that speech twice.”  
  
Sam's mouth worked for a second, but Dean hadn't put him off speaking his mind. _A couple days ago, you didn't even know about demons, and I saw you at Bobby's–you were quick on your feet. You figured out the thing with Meg. You came up with the plan to capture Castiel, and okay, maybe he wasn't what you thought, but he's also the only reason Bobby made it to that hospital. Doesn't it seem like you got used to this hunting thing awful fast?_

“It's not so different from what I'm used to.” That was both true and not. Dean had gotten into some rough shit, but none of it had involved magic or mind-fuckery. He just had some skills that could translate, was all. 

_What about me, then? I was a lawyer. I studied law, not how to finger-paint in human blood._

“Dude, I can't. It's too easy.”

Sam grabbed a roll of gauze off the table.  _How did I know to do that? Or to use holy oil? How did Bobby have holy oil in the first place? That's not something people just keep in their pantries._

“You're a Shadow! A vessel! Who knows why you know anything?”

_You're halfway there! How come you don't remember sigils? How could being vessels make us remember our childhoods differently?_ _We have demons, angels, vessels and a prophet. Why is it so hard to believe that there's something else going on?_

“Like what?” Dean asked. “Pod people are beaming shit into our brains?”

_Pod people don't beam anything._ _I was thinking more like–_ Sam drew a deep breath, and then pointed at the book– _like we're starting to remember the things they do._

They? As in the demon-hunting Sam and Dean?

“Sam, that's impossible. They're fictional characters.”

Sam's nostrils flared. He jerked his hands. _They're prophecy! You heard Cas! They're how the world is supposed to be! Or maybe they're how the world is going to be? Maybe we're becoming them? Only maybe it's not just us. Maybe it's everyone._

“Do you even hear yourself?”

_Dean, it explains how the books are prophecy, it explains Bobby being into demonology, it explains why we remember different things. It explains why I–_ Sam stopped, abruptly. 

“Why you what, Sam?” Dean's throat felt tight. 

Sam made a helpless gesture.  _Why I feel like I owe you so much._

Dean didn't know what to say. What could he say?  
  
Sam didn't owe him a damn thing, but Dean knew this wasn't about debt. Less than an hour ago, Sam had asked for Dean's forgiveness. Now, he'd decided that his giving a shit, even in a roundabout 'I don't want to die hating you' kind of way, was proof that they'd been possessed by their book selves? Proof that the world was _wrong_?  
  
Dean knew why. No actual Sam could have gone this long without making good on his promise. He gave Sam a look–he didn't know what kind–and stormed past him back into the living room.

_Dean–_

Chuck was sitting on his couch. He didn't notice Dean stalking up to him. He didn't notice Dean waving his arms right in front of face.

Dean thwacked his forehead.

“Dean! Holy crap! Don't do that!” Chuck jumped, his hands half-clawing at the couch cushions. 

“I need you to look at something.” Dean put his left shoulder forward and yanked up his sleeve, making sure the whole burn was exposed. “Did your Dean have anything like this? Did he get it in the fire that killed Jess?”

“Whoa. Dean got that when Castiel pulled him out of Hell. Have you–have you always had that? Because that's really weird. I mean–how could you have gotten that?” Chuck looked about three seconds away from having a panic attack. 

Dean shook his head, an ache pulsing in his eye sockets. He remembered now: he'd discovered the handprint in the bathroom, after he'd come in from the porch. Had Cas created it, then? Why did Dean think he'd had it for years two seconds after finding it? Why had his brain come up with some bullshit story to explain it all?  
  
Oh, yeah. Mind control.

“Sonovabitch,” Dean said. “You really can't trust the nerd angels.”  
  
 _Castiel burned book-Dean getting him out of Hell?_  That was Sam, creeping up behind Dean. _Now the real Dean has the same scar? How could that happen?_  


Dean shook his head and didn't translate. He didn't know why he had the hand print. He didn't know if Sam was right, and someone was trying to whammy them into being the douchebags from those lousy books.

But he knew one thing: They were completely fucked.

 _We still need to bandage that hand_ , Sam said. _  
_

That's when Dean's phone rang.

###


	11. Chapter 11

Dean heard his cell ringing from the bathroom, because of course he'd left it in there when he'd stripped off half his clothes. “I gotta get that.”

 _But we don't know who's calling_ , Sam said. _Remember the part where you don't exist enough to have a phone? What if it's Cas?_  
  
"Cas wouldn't call." At least, he didn't have any reason to, not when he knew where Dean was and could grab him anytime he pleased.

Dean went into Chuck's bathroom and stepped around the broken glass. His overshirt and jacket were bundled up to the side of the sink. Dean avoided looking in the mirror as he shook through his clothes to find his cell. It fell with a clunk, and he picked it up and checked the screen. He didn't recognize the number, but he'd been around the country enough times to know the area code. Six-oh-five. South Dakota. “Hello?”

“That you, boy?”

It was Bobby.  _Bobby_ . Shit, Dean's knees almost buckled. “It's real good to hear your voice, man.”

“Oh, cry into your pillow some other damn time.” Bobby sounded rough, but there was warmth there, too.  
  
Something in Dean responded in kind. “How are you? How'd the surgery go? I'm sorry we didn't stick around, but we didn't want to lead Meg to a hospital.”

“I figured you didn't get me to stab myself just to leave me laying in a ditch.” Bobby paused, and Dean could tell he wasn't going to say anything good. “Dean, they're saying I ain't gonna walk again.”

Dean bundled his clothing under his arm, walked out of the bathroom, and leaned against the nearest wall. He almost ran into Sam, who'd decided to stick right outside the door this time.  _Who is it? Cas?_

Dean mouthed Bobby's name to Sam. “I'm sorry, Bobby. I know you took that knife for me.”

Sam straightened and stared at him. Whatever he was gonna say, Dean didn't want to hear it. He turned away before his eyes could burn out because of Sam's face.

“Damned if I know what I was thinking, either. Your angel says you sprang him from that trap. I don't know if it's what I woulda done, but I guess you can't argue with the results.” Bobby's voice got more pointed. “Oh wait, _you can_ , because I'm stuck in this goddamn bed.”

That sounded a lot more like Bobby. It also sounded a little like Bobby was talking to _Cas_.  
  
“Castiel's with you?" Dean asked.  
  
 _Cas is with him?_  
  
" Bobby, he's bad news. If he's there, you can't be.”  
  
Silence came over the line.  
  
“Boy, I don't know what you expect me to do. Crawl away on my hands? From _an angel_? What part of 'my legs don't work' ain't you getting?” 

“Is he there now? Put him on.” What game was Castiel playing? Dean didn't buy his 'love at first sight,' crap, so he'd flapped off to work on Bobby? 

_Why is Cas with Bobby?_ _What happened with him, anyway?  
_

“Why? So you can bitch at him? I can do that myself. What kind of angel can't even heal a pair of damn legs?” The last part was spoken louder than the rest, like it was supposed to be a blow. Dean didn't understand why Bobby thought Castiel would give a fuck. Then again, if Bobby remembered any of his time as a meatsuit, he would've remembered Castiel trying to warn them about Meg. The angel was good at making you think he was on your side.  


“Dammit, Bobby. I ain't joking.”

Dean heard some soft sounds, like the phone had muddled. Then, something crackled, and it was Castiel's voice coming through the speaker. “Hello, Dean.”

He sounded subdued, and maybe a little defensive. Dean didn't want to deal with him. “What are you doing with Bobby, Cas? You gonna tell me something made you save him, too?”  
  
 _Maybe you should ask him why he burned your arm._  
  
Dean glared at Sam.  
  
 _What? Maybe he knows about the books. Maybe that's what he's been aiming for. He might tell you some of it, anyway, especially if that's the only way he can get near you right now._

Dean heard a deep sigh, plus Bobby grumbling something wordless in the background. “You and I aren't working together,” Castiel said. “That doesn't mean I've stopped trying to help.”

“Well, maybe you should!”

_Put the phone on speaker. Dean!_

Dean waved Sam off and clutched the phone to his ear. “I told you to scram.”

“I have reasons, aside from you, to pursue this. What would you have me do, Dean? Surrender myself? I gave up everything for you in a moment of madness, and I can't undo that just because you don't approve.” 

Dean fought the urge to brain himself. He wasn't buying, so why wouldn't Cas quit  _selling_ ?

Maybe Castiel could read his mind over the phone, too, because he bit off his next words. “Something _compelled_ me to help you in that alley, and I'm not the only one. Bobby took a knife for you. And what about Sam? His protectiveness? Is there anything in your previous relationship that suggests he'd value you so highly?”  
  
Dean used to watch a lot of fights, mostly because he had money riding on them. There'd been one in some foreclosure's basement–a real rough and ready underground street fight. The fighters in the one match looked even enough, but one just had this look about him–like he was hungry, like he didn't care who he had to kill. The other was bigger, but younger, with a puppyish looked that reminded Dean of Sam. He'd bet on the mean-looking sonovabitch, and he'd lost 5k.

Because the kid–and who knew, maybe he'd done karate in the second grade or was fighting to get through med school or something–had either known what he was doing, or he'd gotten lucky as shit. He'd landed this _hit_ in the first round. A heart punch. Turns out, the right blow at the exact right time can make the heart work out of sync. Instead of beating, it quivers and goes off rhythm. Then it stops.

And Dean's heart? It had just received a hard hit, and it was winding tight.  
  
According to Cas, Sam not hating Dean was proof that the universe had tipped over sideways. Hadn't Sam said almost the exact same thing?  
  
 _Dean, what's wrong?_ Sam looked so worried. _What's he saying? You can't just keep me out of the loop like this._ “How many of the books have you read?” Castiel asked. There was a flapping noise at the other end, and suddenly, the background noise changed. Where it had been quiet, interspersed with low growls from Bobby, it now became birdsong and light traffic.

“Did you just teleport?” Dean realized he didn't care. “Never mind. Just spit out whatever you're not telling me.”

“I flew to the hospital parking lot.”

“I said _never mind_.”

Castiel breathed for a sec, like he had to think about whatever he was gonna say. “In the books, it isn't Meg who possesses Bobby, but one of her underlings. The demon wearing him attempts to harm you, and Bobby kills it by driving Ruby's knife into his own torso. The events are...very similar to what has happened.”

“Well, the prophecies are mostly wrong. Wasn't Ruby the demon Sam was sleeping with? Why'd she have a knife?”

_It kills demons,_ Sam said, in a funny tone of voice.

“The knife wound that...our Bobby sustained did cause organ and nerve damage, but it did not affect his spinal cord, nor anything else that could cause complete paralysis to his legs. Yet, the damage is there, and it's extensive.

“The knife from the books, which killed demons within their hosts–it caused sparks, for lack of better terminology. They incinerated the demon within. An injury from Ruby's knife could have caused Bobby the loss of his legs. It would certainly explain the extent of the damage. But it wasn't the knife that was used. I don't know if that knife even exists outside of Chuck's prophecy.”

The burn on Dean's shoulder itched. “So, what happened in the books is happening here? Or we're getting the same injuries as the characters? Or something else paralyzed Bobby? What the Hell does this have to do with anything you were saying before? About the Shadow? Or how about that apocalypse?”

_Bobby's paralyzed? How can Bobby be paralyzed? Did he cut a nerve?_

“ _I don't know,_ Dean. I want to say that the prophecies are coming to pass; that's how it should be. But I don't understand why they were inaccurate in the first place.”

Dean needed to remember that this was Castiel: the dickbag angel who'd been lying to him from the start. “Unless you're making all of this up.”

Castiel's frown was damn near audible. “You think I'm lying? Or shaping events?”

“You touch my shoulder, and all of a sudden I've got a handprint burned into my skin, just like book-me? You touch Bobby, and he goes paralyzed. You think I haven't noticed that Meg follows you around? Or that you're the one who brought us to Chuck in the first place? Or that I was doing just fine, until you did that thing in the alley?”

_Castiel was in the alley?_

“What's your end game, Cas? What do you want from me and Sam?”

Castiel's words were a long time coming. “I am trying to help you. I'm sorry you find that so impossible to believe.”

“Stop lying!” Dean shouted. 

Nothing.

Cas had cut the call.

“Dammit.” Dean kicked the wall, leaving a black scuff. He'd have to take out some new credit cards to replace Chuck's house.

_Dean?_ _What were you talking about?_

Chuck had wandered after them at some point. Which was extra awesome, considering that Castiel had probably done something to his brain, too. “What's going on?”

“Sam, Cas is the one who chased you off, okay? Back in that alley, he's that thing that almost made our ears pop.”

_I read the book where you came back from Hell._ Dean didn't know what that was supposed to mean, except Sam didn't look nearly as surprised as he should have.  _I don't get it, Dean. Is that why you were saying he's one of the bad guys? You already knew he was trying to keep us apart._

“He said he was stationed on Earth to make sure nothing interfered with you being a Shadow, but then he saw me, and because angels believe in stupid Hollywood bullshit, he decided he had to drop everything to follow me around like a stray dog. Except that's crazy, right? So, clearly, he's gone crazy, except he thinks he's crazy like the Cas from the books, who's dumb enough to _like_ fake-me.”  
  
Sam swallowed. Dean could tell he was being careful about his words. _I'm not sure I get what you're saying. He was following me, but then he decided to follow you instead? He thinks he's acting like the Cas from the books?_  
  
Of course Sam glommed onto that part.  
  
"You did hear that part where his orders were to _stalk_ you, right?" Dean almost punched the wall, but he couldn't do that with Chuck right there, even if he was only half watching them. “He agrees with you, okay? He says the books are coming true, or maybe we're becoming the books. But if we are, it's because he's making us. He's been there, every step of the way. He touched Bobby. He said he was making him comfortable, but who knows? He's got some kind of agenda, and it ain't saving us.”

“Cas?” Chuck asked, suddenly. “You think _Cas_ is behind this?”

 _How do you know that he's doing all of this? I mean,_ why _would he want to? How would he know to change little details like the legos?  
_  
"He _reads minds_ , Sam." _  
  
How often do you think about legos?  
_

“Shut up about the legos! There were never any legos!” Dean stopped, feeling like he'd been sucker punched. "You want to believe him. You want to trust the angel who told me he was spying on you? This whole time? You're taking his word over–"  
  
Dean couldn't even finish that sentence. Who wouldn't take _anyone_ _'s_ word over Dean's?  
  
Sam bypassed that point, but Dean knew he'd thought it, too. _Things aren't lining up! You_ know _that, Dean!_

Dean eyes burned. “Yeah, I know. You don't hate me, so how could it be really you? We haven't killed each other yet, so the whole damn world must be falling apart.”  
  
“Cas...” Chuck tried again.  
  
“Dammit, Sam. It's what _he_ said! You, him, Bobby. All of you assholes keep not wanting me dead when you should. How is that for things not lining up?”  
  
Sam studied his feet. _Dean, I'm glad we're doing better. I really am. I wasn't lying when I said that I missed you or that I regret what I said–  
  
_ There was one Hell of a 'but' coming up next. Dean could tell.  
  
 _–but you can't tell me it's not even a little weird._  
  
"Cas," Chuck said again. _  
_

Dean whirled on him. “I don't want to hear about Cas!”

“But Cas is the _nice_ angel!” Chuck blurted out.  He withered under Dean's glare, but he didn't quit talking. “I don't just write stories that come into my head. I get visions. Actual, head-splitting visions, like there's an ice pick stabbing images straight into my brain. I see you two, and I see what you're doing, who you're fighting.”

 _You see angels._ Sam seemed eager to change the subject. He'd probably just remembered that it was a little too soon to throw Dean to the curb. _  
_

“ Most angels...they might as well be monsters. Even Anna went bad, even though that was mostly Cas' fault, except he was still working for Heaven, then...” Chuck trailed off and hugged opposite elbows. “I just can't believe he'd do anything to hurt you. Uriel or Zachariah, sure, but not Cas.”

“Maybe you haven't looked far enough with the visions,” Dean said. “Maybe he cut out the parts where he's killing kids.”

“No. I saw that part. But the kid was the Antichrist, and he turned Cas into an action figure, and he got away in the end.”  
  
Dean shot Chuck an incredulous look.  


_Zachariah?_ Sam cut in quickly. _You've mentioned him before. Isn't he the one who made Dean eat salad?_

Dean exploded. “Stop talking to Chuck! He can't  _hear_ you, and I don't give a rat's ass about Zachariah!”

Sam's face closed. Just like that. He didn't even look that hurt, or that angry. He was just a big, blank, dark nothing.  _Maybe we should all calm down.  
_

“You want to hear Cas out, don't you?”

Sam's silence said it all.

“Fine. Then. I'm out.” Dean bundled his clothing under his arms and headed toward Chuck's kitchen, where he'd last left his keys. He needed to drive. He needed to feel normal for five fucking seconds. 

Sam trailed after him. His Shadow-feet barely made a sound.  _Dean! You can't just take off! What about the demons?_ _What about me? I can't talk to anyone unless you're here. I can't even write notes!_

Dean spotted his keys on the counter and snatched them up. “I'm coming back, Sam. But thanks for thinking I'd just take off on you.”

Sam's hands fisted at his sides. He looked like he was preparing for a fight. _What am I supposed to think?_  
  
“You could try remembering your own damn history. I don't leave unless you make me. Remember?”

Sam breathed in. _That was five years ago, Dean._ _Are you really going to punish me, now? When I'm a Shadow? When you might become one, too? I did something really shitty, Dean, and you did a lot of shitty things before that. But holding that against each other isn't going to help us get out of this!_ His mouth twisted, and he huffed out a laugh. _At least I got you to admit you're still pissed._

Because Sam got to roll back into Dean's life and demand that he deal with their fucked-up history, right on Sam's schedule, just because Sam wanted to.

"I'm getting a drink, Sam. I'm going for a drive."  
  
 _Those things don't go together, Dean.  
_  
" I'll see you later." At least Dean was pretty sure Sam would be there when he got back.  
  
The air outside didn't feel warmer, exactly, but it didn't feel cold either. Dean just sighed and headed for his car.

#

Dean liked the act of driving no matter what the scenery, though he'd always take an open stretch of highway over these damn suburban roads, with stop signs every twenty feet and grandmothers putzing at near-negative speeds. He wondered what would happen if a cop pulled him over. What if they didn't see him? Would they think the car was driving itself?

Dean saw a Shadow about three and a half blocks from Chuck's house, right as he drove past a school bus stop. He couldn't see it as clearly as he saw Sam, but it didn't look like a Shadow-blob either. It looked vaguely like a woman. It drifted in the usual Shadow way.  
  
When it passed by a group of kids, there was a flurry of movement, with a boy launching forward, and then falling back. For a moment, Dean thought the Shadow had done something. He touched the brakes. Then he realized that the boy had thrown a rock. The Shadow didn't seem to notice.  
  
Dean didn't stop, but he felt unsettled. Who had that woman been, before? Had she been young? Old? Did she have kids of her own? A husband? A job? Had she known she was born to be some angel's bitch?

His phone buzzed. He checked the screen, even though he was half convinced the thing was cursed. There was a text message from a number he didn't recognize, except for the area code. California. Sam used to share the same one.

The message read: ' Hello, lover. How's it working out with Clarence?'

Meg. Of course it was Meg. She'd had enough time to run around dumping out holy water; she must've had time to sneak a number into his phone, too.

The phone vibrated again. ' Given up, yet?'

How dumb did Meg think he was? No way was Dean taking that kind of bait.

Except–as fucked up as it was–Meg was the only one who hadn't lied to him. She'd known about Sam, and she'd told him the truth about Cas.  
  
Then again, she was a _demon_. Dean had seen her kill. She'd possesse d Bobby, and now he was in the hospital with a busted back.  


In came another. 'What you wearing?' It was followed by, 'Tell me you at least asked Clarence about the sword?'  
  
Dean wrote back. He knew it was stupid, and not just because he was doing it one-handed while he drove. 'I know Satan's homeless.'  
  
Dean's phone rang. He picked up.

“Long time, no hear, Dean-o. Tell me where you are, and you can frisk me for info. It's way more fun than all this fishing.” Meg sounded like a woman again–the same one Dean had seen at the diner, though it was a little hard to tell over the phone. He shivered a little, remembering the way she'd killed four people, easy as pie. The hellhound scratches itched again, through maybe some of that was the burn.  
  
“How'd you know about Cas?”  
  
Meg's voice went a little less coy. “I told you. Heaven made these Shadows. Of course they were going to have someone protecting their investment. Plus, just between you and me, those featherheads are a little too smug for their own good. They do love a good gloat.”  
  
“I'm getting that,” Dean said, even though Castiel hadn't gloated much. “I know enough not to trust you, either. Me and Sam are supposed to give Michael and Lucifer rides to the prom, and the apocalypse can't happen because we're totaled.”  
  
“You're not a Shadow yet, Dean.”  


“You want Sam back to being Lucy's meatsuit.”

“I think there are a few things I should explain to you, Dean-o. The birds, the bees, angel, demons. See, demons? We're a simple bunch. We fight, we fuck, we rip your stomach out through your mouth. But we were human, once. We were all sinners, and that means we get something angels can't.” Meg paused. “Lucifer's my ticket; he's the one I'm following. I'm guessing you could say something similar of old Sammy-boy. That's what we've got in common, Dean. We're both in this for family.”

“I ain't interested in seeing Lucy ride around in Sam's body. That's all you want.” Dean cradled the phone in his ear as he turned the wheel. He could never find the damn speaker button. 

He wasn't going to trust a known murderer just because she spouted some bullshit about loyalty, especially when she was talking about following  _the devil_ . 

“Exactly. You won't get any surprises with me, Dean. I know you want Sam back for yourself; you know I want Sam back for Lucifer. Are you seeing the common thread, there? We can help each other out, to a point.”

“And after that point?”

“Did Clarence explain the fine print about angel vessels?"  
  
"Why don't you tell me?" If Meg said the same thing as Cas and Chuck, maybe it was true.  
  
"Lucifer can't just waltz on in the minute Sammy-boy turns human. Sam still has to say 'yes.'  I want to give him that opportunity, which can't happen if he stays a Shadow. Catch my drift?”  
  
Dean knew Meg was bad news. He didn't have any gut feelings, telling him she was someone he could trust. If anything, she made his skin crawl. But heneeded to _fix Sam_ , and this was a third person saying Sam would have to say 'yes' to the devil riding him, which meant that shit wasn't ever gonna happen.  
  
There was something else, too. Some pull at Dean's stomach, telling him that was _right_. He didn't know where it was coming from or if it was even really him. He just knew he didn't have anything or anyone else–Castiel was a liar, Sam didn't  like or trust him, Bobby was hurt, Meg was a demon. Chuck was just weird.  
  
This was down to Dean, and the apocalypse was too big. He couldn't think about that. He needed to work on saving Sam.  
  
Who would know how to save Sam? Meg said Heaven made the Shadows, and Castiel had been ordered not to interfere with Sam. Somebody upstairs knew _something_. But how was Dean going to question an angel who wasn't Cas?  
  
A plan bubbled at the back of his mind. He didn't know if it work. But he had to try, didn't he? He was running out of time. He'd take a desperate gambit over twiddling his thumbs.  
  
Dean closed his eyes.  “So you help me de-Shadow Sam, and then we go back to you trying to kill me? Do you even have a plan, or are you just spewing bullshit to get me into your parlor?”

“Like that's where I'd lure a fine specimen like yourself. Prophecies don't change, Dean. There's only one way to get Lucifer out of the cage. Someone started breaking seals anyway. The apocalypse _started_ anyway.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

He could practically hear Meg's eyes roll. “Let's just say I've got a few things up my sleeve. I'm working for some real powerful people, Dean. You think failing's an option? Just tell me where you are, so we can have ourselves a pow-wow.”

It was a real bad idea, but Dean gave Meg a place to meet him in an hour, and then he made a call.  
  
###  



	12. Chapter 12

Meg liked ambushes. So far, she'd arranged two. Dean didn't want to give Meg another opportunity to surround him, and he couldn't ask her to meet him anywhere public. That might work for some thug; with a demon, he'd end up with another diner filled with corpses.

He picked a foreclosed house he'd noticed driving out of Chuck's neighborhood. It was a narrow, old Victorian, with cookie cutter shapes in the molding above and below each window. Meg would think he planned to do this inside, so he'd spray painted a couple devil's traps inside the doorways, just to give her not-people something to think about. He probably should have given himself two hours instead of just the one, but Dean was used to flying by the seat of his pants, and he didn't want to do this thing in the dark.

He'd gone to a liquor store, just like he'd told Sam. He'd also stopped at a mom-and-pop hardware store for some basic supplies. He'd left a credit card on the counter. It wasn't like he was gonna need it again.

Now, he waited in his car. The cold should have been killing him, even with the coat, but he felt alright. Not warm, but not cold either. He didn't know how demons traveled. Did they zap around like angels? There was that black smoke, but he didn't know if that was only worked for meat-free travel. He didn't know if he'd even recognize Meg. It would be easy to surprise him by taking on a new suit.

Fucking demons.

He saw movement toward the back of the house. He kept his gun–a black Beretta 92FS–low and out of sight. At least Sam hadn't seen what he'd done to his baby's trunk. Then again, Dean could always say she was becoming the car from the books, complete with a secret armory.

Meg came out from around the house, like maybe she'd been lurking in the backyard. That was her old meatsuit, at least. She looked like she was alone, but that didn't mean much. Dean kept an eye on the undergrowth in front of the house, as well as the dirty snowbanks that had yet to melt. If he saw a paw print, he might have a few seconds to squeeze off a shot and turn tail.

Dean stepped out of the car, the gun clear in his hand. He knew it couldn't hurt her, but sometimes it paid off to look dumb. He walked around the front of the car and opened the front passenger side door, just like his mother would've taught him, if she'd lived long enough to see him turn five.

“Chivalry. And here I thought it was dead.” Meg slinked over, looking like a million bucks and knowing it. She'd changed her shirt to something billowy and purple, but she'd kept the boots and jacket from the diner. “We going somewhere?”

Dean made a show of looking around. “I'm not hanging around here to get jumped.”

“You know, they say trust is the key to any working relationship.” Meg scanned the seat, her eyes lighting on the brand-new floor mats he'd picked up. He hadn't even taken off the orange price sticker. “Are you that worried I'll sully the vinyl?”

“Sulfur's a bitch to get out.”

Meg curled the fingers of one hand. The floor mat slid, like she'd actually pulled it–

–revealing the red edge of a devil's trap.

“And here I thought we were BFFs.” Meg gave Dean a pointed look and opened the back passenger door. He hadn't put any mats back there, and she slid right onto the bench seat. No hesitation.

Dean fought hard not to breathe out in relief. He grinned, instead. “You can't blame a gambler for trying his luck.”

“Oh, I can. Tell you what, though? I'm such a giver, I'll let this one slide.” Meg leaned back into the seat, making herself comfortable. “But I wouldn't try any more tricks, Dean-o. My hounds might not have your scent, but they do have mine, and we all know where I've been, baby.”

Dean shut her door and went back to his own. He slid in and turned the keys. “You said you could help me. That means maybe you should start talking, and without any of that cryptic bullshit everyone keeps feeding me.”

“You have a stalker,” Meg said.

Dean looked up and saw a Shadow cutting across the neighbor's yard. Her features were hard to make out, but he was pretty sure he was looking at a girl, maybe a young teenager. She was short and thin enough, and he got the impression of long hair hanging down her shoulders.  
  
Wariness tingled up Dean's spine. It was rare to see more than one Shadow in the same place outside of a big city. If the two Shadows he'd seen had both been from around here, maybe that would explain it. Then again, Sam had managed to walk across half the country.  
  
He remembered what Sam's words: _I couldn’t talk to the other Shadows! It’s weird. At first, we could kinda gesture at each other, but as time went on, the other Shadows wouldn’t react to me at all. It’s like they stopped remembering that they’d been human, like they were ghosts or something._

Dean shuddered. He didn't believe in coincidences. It was also a little too early to flip out–he'd only seen two Shadows–and he couldn't see them messing up his plan.

Meg snapped her fingers. “Chop, chop. Or do you want to wait around and see what she'll do to you?”  
  
Maybe she was remembering what Sam could do to a demon, when he got pissed enough.

He put the Impala in reverse. He hadn't planned a destination, so much as lifted a map of Gamble, Nebraska, just to note the routes he _didn't_ want to take.

“I've always liked a man who gets right down to the nitty gritty. Everything I told you about the apocalypse is true, you know." Meg's reflection smiled in Dean's rear-view mirror. The sun was just starting to set, and the shadows were growing. “You can't just snap your fingers and watch the world burn, or believe me, it would've happened a long time before now. When the Shadows showed up, they stopped an apocalypse that never should have started in the first place. For someone to do something like this, they had to change the laws of the universe. Laws that can't _be_ changed. Not unless you're God.”

Dean turned onto a side street. “I don't think I can handle a war on the big guy, lady. Besides, Cas is pretty sure He's not the one giving orders.”

Meg started twirling a lock of her hair. “God doesn't exactly spend all his time poking holes in his own Plan, and believe me, it wasn't anyone from the pit. Archangels can mess with time and space and dimensions–all of that H.G. Wells crap–but they can't toss out the underpinnings. Not even Lucifer has that kind of juice. They can get real, real close, though.”

“You're pinning this on someone else in Heaven? Who? Michael?" Dean almost had trouble saying the name.  
  
“ _Someone_ created an apocalypse just to stop it. _Someone_ made sure the Michael sword's the only vessel who gets to walk, and that he's got all the motivation in the world to shine a bright light on those Shadows. Any thoughts on that, chucklehead?”

Dean saw another Shadow, this one freaking out a Yorkie. “I'm coming up blank.”

Meg huffed. “Why am I not surprised? Let's say you want an apocalypse–and believe me, Heaven does. Before you can have your battle, there's one thing you need: a willing vessel to host your warrior. What happens when he won't say 'yes'?”

“You see if he's got a brother?” Dean caught something in his left side-view mirror–headlights from a Ford E-series van, probably from the nineties. It was dark brown, with an impressive dent in the bumper. It didn't look all that suspicious, other than the fact that it was a dark van, and Dean was getting pretty damn paranoid. 

“Let's say you need this guy and nothing you do works. He's too well hidden, or he's too stubborn, or you can't find enough leverage. You're one of the most powerful things there is, and you're real, real desperate. Do you really think you're gonna throw up your hands and give up because some human won't play along?”

“You make your own leverage,” Dean said, finally. “So, you're saying that Sam's been Shadowed as blackmail?”

“Maybe you realize you're righteous man's a little too righteous, and there's nothing in Heaven or Earth that can sway him to your side. Any enterprising angel's gotta be going, 'But where can I find a guy who's just righteous enough?'”

"I'm not the right guy?”  
  
“You weren't, but if you're not now, you're getting there.”

Dean remembered Sam again:  _They're prophecy! You heard Cas! They're how the world is supposed to be! Or maybe they're how the world is going to be? Maybe we're becoming them? Only maybe it's not just us. Maybe it's everyone._   


“Did you ever ask Clarence what the Shadows _are_?” Meg asked. “Don't say 'vessels.'”

“They're 'visible absences,' whatever that means.” Dean turned right, past a barber shop, heading toward a slightly busier drive–which meant almost nothing in freaking Gamble. He already hated this town.  


“They're _nothing_ , Dean. They're vacuums. Nothingness.” Meg seemed pleased with herself. “If you do something crazy like smush two parallel universes together, you end up with cracks. They're like itty bitty holes in time and space–and knowing what I know about how the party's supposed to get started, I'm betting whoever planned this thing turned them into a trigger switch.”

_Smushing parallel universes?_   
  
“Make your point, Meg.”

In the rear-view mirror, something dark and raw pulsed beneath her human face. “Exhibit A: Shadows prove that someone's been messing with the lines between dimensions. Exhibit B: Michael's sword is the only vessel who hasn't hasn't gone goose egg. Exhibit C: Hey, have you taken a close look at Clarence, lately?”

“Occupied vessels can't become Shadows.” Dean made a U-turn, just to make sure the van he'd spotted wasn't following him. It turned when Dean did.

“You can't change the laws of the universe. But all of that goes to–well, who knows–if you blend two universes together. All of a sudden, your righteous man look a lot more like some dumb thug, except he's got just enough of the  _right_ Dean inside to make his 'yes' mean something. Just in case he's still the type to say 'no,' you make sure his 'yes' will be the only thing that can de-Shadow both him and his brother. Oh, and since you probably want to carry on with Apocalypse side A once the Michael sword's on board, you rig yourself a nice little Shadow bomb: When your man bends over for Michael, everything rights itself. One Dean wakes up with a real bad hangover; the other Dean's exactly where you want him–100 percent angeled-up and ready to end the world.”  
  
That...Dean didn't know if that actually did much to change his plan, logistically speaking. But he felt unsettled, somehow. There was something in the back of his mind. He wouldn't call it an itch or an urge. It sort of felt...resigned.  


“So we're the blue universe?” Dean asked. “Except someone's stirring us in with the red, and now we're purple?”

“Close enough. Ding ding. Someone give the boy a Little Debbie.”  
  
"What happens if I say 'no'?"  
  
This wasn't the war on drugs, though. Dean got the feeling that refusal wasn't an option.  
  
"Nothingness ain't stable. It expands." Meg drew her hands together and then flew them apart, her mouth forming a _whoosh_. "My guess is that the Shadows get locked into an almost-living Hell, until they start expanding those cracks and both dimensions falls apart."  
  
That sounded an awful lot like a world would end no matter Dean did, which made him feel slightly less shitty about the only plan he had–except his instincts seemed to be shaping into something different than he'd meant. He reminded himself that this was Meg, and he couldn't believe a damn word she said.  


“I'm getting _possessed_ by book-me? How do you know all this?” 

Meg laughed. “Who do you think I take my orders from? Priscilla, Queen of the Desert?”

“Lucifer,” Dean said, his fingers going numb behind the wheel. “Lucifer told you someone pancaked two universes?”

The van was slowing down. Dean didn't know if that was a good thing or not

Meg smirked. “Let's just say my daddy doesn't appreciate the sudden detour. He wants to get the show back on the road.”

People started coming out of the van, like freaking clowns. Dean knew they were demons, though, and not just because they'd been following him when he had Meg in the backseat. It was more of a gut-feeling than anything physical. Maybe Shadows came with spidey-sense.

Dean hit the gas.

Meg waved her hand, and then gasped when she couldn't yank the steering wheel or hit the brakes or whatever she'd planned. Her voice dropped low and dangerous when she squinted up at the ceiling and saw the devil's trap. “What did you do, Dean?”

“It's a pain in the ass to draw a whole trap in one of those damn fabric pens, but I think it paid off.” He'd found one just a shade darker than the Impala's interior; in dim light, it was damn hard to see, but that didn't seem to matter to the magic: Meg was stuck. 

Meg met his eyes in the mirror. “Last time, I brought puppies. I'm thinking it's about time you met a real damn hound.”

She whistled.

Dean turned back to the road, and that wasn't a hellhound. That was a hell _bear_ . 

Holy shit. He could see it.

No, that wasn't right. He wasn't  _seeing_ it. It was more like he was getting the impression of what was there: a great, gaping cave-mouth, huge paws with claws like machetes, the toes turned inward beneath a hulking barrel chest. He sensed torn skin and great, gaping swaths of pulsing rot. 

“I liked them better invisible,” he muttered.

“You can see them? That ain't a good sign, Dean-o. Normally, that honor goes to the damned.”

He cut across an empty second lane. Meg whooped. The hellhound loosed a low, ominous howl, the sound between a roar and a trumpet.

It leaped, landing an inch from the front bumper.

Dean steered thorough the shake beneath the wheels. He sensed jaws snapping outside his window.

“Where do you think you're going?” Meg sounded way too smug, considering she was trapped in the backseat. 

He headed back toward the demons. The hellhound gave chase, like any other dog. Of course, most dogs didn't have teeth like machetes–

There were five demons, and they were trying to blockade the rest of the road with their bodies. Dean bore down and saw the black in their eyes–

_Bang._

_Crack._

One demon collided with his baby's bumper. The body cracked and thumped and rolled to the side.

Another smacked straight onto his windshield. Blood streaked across new spiderwebs in the glass. He saw black smoke screaming past the corner of his eye. The demons were jumping ship. Were they running away? Or running for reinforcements?

Something bumped his back end.  _Hard_ . The back wheels swerved, moving on a totally different track from the front. Something wet and putrid slopped over the back window. 

Dean got it: The demons hadn't been stopping him. They'd been using their bodies as speed bumps, so the hellhound could catch him. If the demons needed to slow him down, maybe hellhounds weren't all that fast–not compared to a car on an open road.  
  
“Don't I have to be alive to say 'yes'?” he shouted. "That's what you were getting at, right? I say 'yes,' it fixes Sam, and the universes go back to normal."  
  
It seemed like the right thing to do. More than that, it _felt_ right–not in a good way, necessarily, but like Dean's options had just narrowed, and saying 'yes' was the only way out. He hoped that wasn't some other Dean coming through. Then he remembered it couldn't be. Weren't the book-Winchesters trying to stop the apocalypse?   


Meg sounded oddly out of breath, considering she was just sitting there. “Knowing what you've done, I'm pretty sure killing you will send you straight to my daddy. If you don't say 'yes' now, you'll damn sure be saying it once Hell's done sweet-talking you.”  
  
Dean yanked the wheel, sending his baby into a one-eighty. The world flew by in a haze, and he got the impression of blazing eyes, smoldering behind the cracks in his windshield–

He skidded around the hellhound, his baby going up on two wheels.

Meg slammed against the invisible force field holding her. “Are you insane? This isn't a car! It's a goddamn boat! You can't outmaneuver a hellhound!”

“What happens to you if she crushes the back end of the car?” Dean asked. “Seeing as how that trap won't let you leave your meatsuit?”

“It'll tickle me pretty.” Meg didn't sound afraid, exactly, but she wasn't _joyful_ , either. “The right hit will break the trap, so I can sit back and relax while Princess here turns you into Hell kibble.”

“Princess?” Dean stomped the accelerator. “No way am I getting killed by a dog named _Princess_.”

The hellhound's claws scraped along the car's side in a giant swipe. Dean saw sparks fly off and burn out on the road.

Meg was right; the hound was too quick, and he'd bet money those claws were better off-road than he was. His best bet was to burn rubber and try and get as much distance between himself and the hellhound as possible–

The hellhound turned, and Dean saw an opening. The Impala was handling funny–those bumps hadn't done her any favors–and Dean couldn't see well through the broken windshield. Still, his baby had always been there for him, and this would be a Hell of a time to fail.

She flew. Right past the hound.

He heard jaws snap, but he'd been right. The hellhound was fast; she was damn fast. But the car had the edge, acceleration-wise. Unfortunately, he'd have to turn sometime. He rolled down his window. Maybe he'd find an opportunity to fire a shot–

That's when he heard them. Sirens.

Christ, someone must have called in the asshole fighting  _something invisible_ in the middle of the road.

He hit a hard left, and almost rode up on some grandma's back bumper. The speed limit was freaking fifty-five, and she was going fucking  _fifteen_ . In a fucking  _station wagon._ Dean swerved around her, but anytime he wasn't going straight, he wasn't going as fast as he needed to, and the hellhound seemed to know it.

He saw it fall back.

He saw it  _jump_ .

The damn thing sailed straight over his head, like it had springs attached to its fucking legs. It should have turned around and faced him, but Dean was going too damn fast, and he was almost on top of it before it got the chance. He snatched up his gun and turned off the safety.

The Impala grazed the hound as he flew past, half-invisible, tufted fur brushing against the windows of his passenger side. He got out in front of it, but only just. He wouldn't make it to the diner if he kept getting slowed down–

Not unless the hound slowed down, too.

He fired. He knew he hadn't missed, but the hellhound didn't seem too bothered. Why would it be? It was huge and popped up on adrenaline. Dean would've had more luck trying to stop a grizzly with a BB gun.

Dean reversed, slamming the Impala's back end into the hounds front. Hopefully, it had nerves running straight up the front of its shins, same as people–

_Boom-snap._

Dean had heard that noise before, or something a whole lot like it, when a colt had broken his leg straight out of the gate. The bone snapped like a gunshot, and the horse kept on trying to gallop. He didn't know he was already dead.

But dogs weren't horses.

The hellhound screamed. A high-pitched bellow. It rose above those noise of the sirens, and there were a lot more of them, now, and they were getting louder–  


“The Shadows,” Meg gasped. “What are the Shadows doing?”

_People_ –or former ones–were practically popping out of the freaking woodwork. As far as Dean could tell, they weren't  _doing_ anything, but that didn't make their presence less weird–

He saw police lights flashing and swore. You could only lead the police so long before they created blockades or called in helicopters, and Dean couldn't exactly pull over and play nice with a hellhound on his heels. He'd die, and so would the fucking cops, and if he didn't get to that damn diner, it might get a whole lot worse than that. Christ, he hoped that Chuck had kept his word. Dean had made him promise, but Dean had broken enough of those to know they didn't count for much.

“You got any more where that came from?” Dean asked Meg.

“Shadows?”

“ _Hellhounds._ If that one's not dying, she's at least too busted up to follow us fast.”

“Of course there are more of them! They're hellhounds!” Meg's head smacked against the window when Dean turned right, tires squealing.

Dean couldn't really afford to take in the view, but he did anyway. The Shadows seemed to be trailing him, but in classic zombie mode–nothing too fast.

He heard more howls, though. Wasn't that just fucking perfect?

Dean turned left, just barely passing a cop car that was coming to head him off. It was too quick to be sure, but he thought he saw black in those eyes. “Are the cops possessed?”  
  
"You can't blame a girl for hedging her bets."  
  
"I can blame you for plenty, lady."  


The cop car was right on his tail now. The guy driving hit the gas, bumping Dean's back end. In the distance, he saw hellhounds. They _were_ smaller, but Dean knew hellhounds weren't scary because they were fast or ugly or had big-ass claws. It was because they were freaking Terminators–they'd never _stop_ coming.

The cop bumped him again. There wasn't much he could do, except increase his speed. His baby was fast, but she wasn't exactly built for the Indy 500; a Crown Victoria wasn't too far off, in terms of horsepower, and wouldn't have that much trouble keeping up, especially if the cop's main goal was just to drive him toward his buddies.

The car rode up on his right side and drove him sideways, like he wanted to get Dean's rear wheels off the road. Dean got a quick glimpse at the guys face–middle-aged, mustached, and yeah, demonic.

“Back at Bobby's,” he started–

“You really think I'm in the mood for chit-chat?”  


Dean raised his voice and dropped the Impala into reverse, getting behind the Crown Victoria. “I was just wondering why the Shadows got you so nervous. Back at Bobby's, Sam did something to your demon pals–one touch, and it was like they turned inside out.”

“I told you. Each Shadow is just a little dab of _absolute nothingness_. You try swimming in that pool and see how you turn out.”

“I'm getting there.” Dean slowed down, knowing that the 'cop' would do so as well. Of course, that meant that the hellhounds could catch up–they weren't as fast as cars, but they were definitely faster than your average housepoodle. Hopefully, they were too dumb to go after things like wheels–

Which was, of course, when he heard a yip and a pop. “Sonovabitch! These rims are freaking originals!”  
  
He slammed the gas pedal as hard as he could, hoping the momentum would keep him from losing control. He could see the back of the diner, now, but he needed to get one road over to make it to its parking lot–

Also, it was nearly surrounded by Shadows.

Dean hit the end of the cop's car, pushing it forward. The Impala creaked around him, as hellhounds banged into and tore against the doors, stripping metal with their claws. The one tire had started that _thump-a-thump_ death knell, the one that meant his rim was going to Hell.

The diner was right there. It was  _right there_ . It was a squat, narrow building, with metal siding and a sign that was just starting to blink in the twilight. A beacon: Ike's Diner. 

Dean wasn't going to make it. Not without a fucking miracle.

He jerked the wheel to the side, taking the Impala off-road. She was going way too slow, now, but there was also a bit of a hill, so if he could just get her up again–

“Is this really the time for a waffle run?” Meg asked.

Dean pressed the accelerator. “C'mon, baby.”

One of the hellhounds leapt up on the roof, its paws punching in–

The door behind Dean ripped free, and he saw a hellhound shredding at the edge of the nearest seat, trying to find enough purchase to scramble inside–

That's when they passed through the first Shadow.

Dean didn't get a good look–they were going too fast–but it brushed through the car or the car brushed through it, and suddenly the hellhound was gone. Dean heard it splatter.

They hit a second, which came awfully close to colliding with Meg.

Meg thumped her window. “Let me out of here! Those things will rip me apart!”

“Who says I care?” But Dean needed Meg alive for at least a couple more seconds. Lucky for him, the Shadows seemed to be parting. But that just meant that the diner wall was right ahead of him, looking more solid by the second–

“Hello, Dean.” Suddenly Castiel was sitting in the front passenger seat, which, _shit_.

“ _Shit_.” That was Meg. 

Dean didn't know what he was going to do, but maybe Cas did, because he settled his hand on Dean's shoulder and their eyes met for a long split-second.  He didn't look like he was planning on smiting Dean. His expression was way too warm considering how they'd parted. Maybe this was a mostly different Cas. Maybe he thought he was looking at a mostly different Dean.   


“Buckle up,” Dean told him, for no goddamn reason. He looked out over the dash, and he saw metal siding coming at him–  
  
The Impala crashed into the diner's wall.

###  



	13. Chapter 13

Dean felt his something hook at his insides, and then he was standing in a diner, looking at the crumpled remains of his car.

Most of a wall had fallen on and around its trunk. Dean could see some of the outside world through the debris, but they barrier between the diner and not-the-diner had been more or less sealed. Maybe Cas had done that. His baby's front end had crumpled like an accordion. The whole undercarriage looked fucked. The roof had been crushed down, but by some miracle the devil's trap had held. Maybe that had been Cas, too.

Meg slumped down in her seat. She looked dazed. Her eyes were black, and her hair had swept partially over her face. Blood tricked from her temple.  
  
Dean pivoted to take in the rest of the diner. The black and white checkered floor was littered with debris: metal, glass, tableware. Some of the tables had been uprooted. He saw laminated menus; apparently the neon outside was missing an 'M', because this diner belonged, to Mike, not Ike.

Sam stood near the far wall. Chuck sat near at a nearby table, which was too close to a window for comfort. Dean saw Shadows moving behind the glass.  
  
“Is anybody hurt?” Dean asked, when his vocal cords started working. But it was a stupid question, because there wasn't anybody _here_. No waitresses, no customers, no cooks. There was food–splashed, steaming coffee; pancakes stacked with deflating Reddi Whip–like people had been abducted by aliens mid-meal.   
  
_Dean,_ Sam breathed. _Jesus Christ. Did you have to run the car through the wall?_  
  
“ I removed the others," Castiel answered Dean.  
  
"Good thinking." Dean shoved his hands in his pockets, just because he needed to do something.  
  
Castiel looked pleased. Dean thought back to the whole dog conversation, but Castiel didn't frown or punch him or anything. In fact, his expression barely changed.  
  
“I thought it sounded like you were planning something, and I kinda can't help but know how that works out for civilians. There are usually...splatters.” Chuck eyes jumped around the Impala, like he didn't know where Dean was, but he knew he had to look _somewhere_.  
  
Sam stepped closer and crossed his arms over his chest. _Did you really think you could call Chuck and tell him to meet you at some random diner, and I wouldn't come along, too? He told me, and I waved my arms around until he prayed for Cas. Who is probably the only reason you didn't_ die _in that dumb stunt you just pulled._  
  
Dean shook his head, more in disbelief than as an actual 'no.' He didn't know why Cas and Sam were even _here_ , except that it had to be Chuck's fault for telling Sam. But how had Sam hooked up with Castiel? Why had they started some kind of dream team? Did they know what Dean was planning?

“What the Hell game are you playing?” Meg broke the silence with a ragged shout.  


“Cops were following me. And, uh, dogs. Hellhounds.” Dean felt dazed, almost. He couldn't hear any sirens. 

_Shadows beat hellhounds_ , Sam offered. _I don't know about the cops._

“Either they gave up their chase, they were stopped by the Shadows, or someone is manipulating events.” Castiel's voice went deeper on that last option. 

Dean looked at the Shadows drifting behind the window glass. He saw a young man with what might've been pale hair, a severe-looking woman, a middle-aged man. Dean didn't like the look of them. He didn't like that they were here. He could feel his pulse thumping, not just in the usual places, but in his palms, up his spine, behind both eyes. “Sam?”

 _We don't know. They just started following me. We had a Hell of a time getting away from Chuck's.  
_  
Dean didn't have time for drawn-out apologies. Chuck and Meg were both here. If Dean's info was even a little right, something should be happening, anytime now. “I'm sorry, Sam. You were right about the books, more than me, anyway. I'm not sure I have time to explain it, but–

“Your friend Bobby discovered that the two universes had been merged, were in the process of merging,” Castiel said. “He's...astute.”

“–we're all mixed up with some assholes from another universe,” Dean finished, his mouth spinning ahead of his brain.  


“As I said, Bobby figured it out.” Castiel looked toward the Impala. “I think the real question here concerns Meg.” He didn't say the next part, but Dean still heard it: _You brought Meg to the place you'd arranged to meet Chuck?_

Meg glared at them all. “I'm happy to go anytime. It's kinda cramped in this compact.”

Dean tried to distract Cas. “How did Bobby figure it out? I got it from Meg, who gets her info from Lucy. But Bobby...he's _Bobby_.”  
  
Except that didn't mean anything, not with this universe crap. Bobby could be an alcoholic conspiracy theorist who thought alien mind control could be stopped by tin foil; he could be some badass blue collar genius. He could be anything between. Dean didn't know him, or Sam, or Cas, or _himself._ They'd all become strangers.

_We always knew he was a sci-fi fan_ . Sam uncrossed his arms. He swung them at his sides before sticking them in pockets. At least Dean hoped there were pockets. _Cas told him everything he knew, and Bobby put it right together. He thinks the key to undoing it is fixing the Shadows, and he thinks you're the one who has to do it. You...you have to give Heaven what it wants._

Dean said it for him. “I have to say 'yes.'”  
  
Certainty hit him again, like a cold wave. If saying 'yes' would reverse the Shadows and separate the universes...well, wasn't it better to destroy one universe instead of two? He didn't enjoy taking Meg's word on that one, but he couldn't deny the gut feeling lending weight to her theory. Saying 'yes' would save Sam, separate the universes and stop a lot of people from dying on the B-side.  
  
Sam looked surprised, then suspicious. _Did Meg tell you the part where that rips the universes apart and starts the apocalypse?_

“Not our problem.” Especially if Meg hadn't been lying about the unstable, expanding Shadows.  


“What are they saying?” Chuck asked Castiel.

“I can't hear Sam, because I can no longer read Dean's thoughts. His degeneration has progressed too far.”  
  
Dean looked at his hands and noticed what Chuck and Cas had already seen: His skin was darker–not as in color, but as in absence–a black hole sucking in light. His fingers were beginning to fan together. How did that make any sense? How come the other Shadows looked clearer, but Dean couldn't see himself?

_You can't start_ anyone's _apocalypse!_

What was Dean supposed to say?

Castiel stared at Dean. Chuck did the same for a moment, but then he seemed to forget that Dean was even there. He went back to watching the windows.

“You want to say 'yes,'” Castiel said, very slowly. 

Dean paced a few steps. He needed to do this, dammit. “Yeah, okay, fine. You caught me. I thought Meg would trip Chuck's alarm wire, and then I could say 'yes' and everything could go back to normal. Two universes, two sets of problems and no more Shadow crap.”

Chuck knuckled his ear. “Can you speak up? I can barely hear you, Dean. Your face. Man, I can barely see–” He cut himself off. "Whoa. That doesn't look good."  
  
Dean followed the line of his gaze to the windows. The Shadows were leaning against the glass. They also seemed to be melding together, like The Blob. Dean blinked hard. Was he really seeing them transform into a super-Shadow, or had his vision found an entirely new way to go nuts?

“Cas? You know anything about that?” Dean asked. 

“I don't know what could make them do anything, but I suggest we stay away from the windows. I don't know what they're looking for, or if they're looking for anything. But I remember that they can travel through walls.”

“Meg said they're like nothingness or black holes or crap. It's bad if they mix with things.”  
  
 _It's not like I gut everything_ , Sam said, a little defensive.   
  
"I'm right here. I can speak for myself." Except Meg didn't seem too inclined to volunteer info, now that she was trapped.  
  
Dean continued for her. "She said they can, uh, expand."  
  
Meg examined her nails. "Looks like I was totally wrong about that, too. Haven't you noticed I'm the only one who tells you the truth? Sorry, boys. There's just no good way to end this. Dean needs to say 'yes.' He can say it here, or he can say it after my daddy convinces him it's the right thing to do. But it's that or we all go kaput."  
  
“Meg's not entirely correct about the Shadows, though she may be right about their...effects.” Castiel seemed to be caught up in looking at the diner's menus. Maybe he liked the sound of a blue plate special. “If you say 'yes,' you will save your Sam–at least for now–but you'll doom another pair of brothers.

_It's the wrong thing to do. You know that, Dean. I know you do.  
_

Dean wasn't so sure why Sam thought that would be the appeal that stopped him. He turned on Cas. “You said an archangel's guarding the prophet! You said if anything looked at him wrong, some absolute Heavenly asshole would fly down here to protect him!”  
  
Meg looked up at that, alarmed. "What now? You've got a prophet?"  


“Michael's not the one guarding me. That's Raphael.” Chuck rejoined the conversation. 

“Well, maybe I could ask Raphael to ring Michael. Not that it matters now. He ain't coming.”

“Meg hasn't left the trap,” Castiel noted.  
  
"It's pretty comfy," Meg said. "Honestly, I could camp out here a few days. It might be better with company, but I can handle some rough living." Her eyes flicked over Cas, who just looked puzzled.  


 _But we don't_ want _him to come down!_ Sam said. 

“I agree with Sam. I don't want to start the apocalypse, even if it is to take place in another universe.” Castiel's eyes drilled straight at Dean. 

“Speak for yourself.” Meg's voice carried from the car. "It's happening either way. Dean-o says 'yes,' at least it's only one world that gets to die. I'd take that over whatever those Shadows are gonna do."  
  
Chuck addressed her. "Except you're trying to help Lucifer. What helps Lucifer probably isn't going to help anyone else."  
  
Meg shrugged. "It would clear up your Shadow problem."  
  
 _She's bluffing_ _. The Shadows stopped one apocalypse. How can they also start another?  
  
_ Dean tried not to think about the blob outside.  
  
Chuck picked up a menu and started fiddling with it. “In my books, Sam and Dean are fighting to stop the apocalypse. If they don't, one of them is going to end up killing the other. Michael stabs Sam, or Lucifer stabs Dean. Either way, saying 'yes' means some version of you is going to kill or be killed by his brother.”  
  
"On the bright side, it would liven things up some," Meg said. "This isn't exactly good television."  


Dean didn't know what to believe. The universe-meld had lodged another guy into Dean's head, into his skin. Book-Dean cared about the world, and Sam, and the goddamn apocalypse. Dean didn't know about himself. Part of him wanted to tell Michael to stick it where the sun don't shine, but why save a world that wasn't even  _his_ ? Why bother, when not saving it would save the brother that actually was?  
  
Saying 'yes' felt right. More than that, it felt like his only course of action. Was that him? Was that book-Dean? That Dean didn't seem like the kind of guy who'd give up, especially with something like the whole world on the line. So where were these feelings coming from? It had to be him, didn't it? He'd given up on enough things over the years. He just didn't know why it bothered him so much, when saying 'yes' was a no-brainer. That had to be coming from the other Dean. Right?  


Bobby said he'd never seen Dean act like he cared. What if the real him didn't?  
  
Dean licked dry lips. “I know all that, and I've got a plan. I know none of you trust me. I'm just some dumb crook. But if all this double universe crap is true, it means I also got a little bit of this other guy, and he seems like the kind of person you want at your back.”

“He is,” Castiel said, without hesitation.  


“Yeah. I figured.” Dean tried not to sound too bitter.  
  
"Although part of me feels...bitter disappointment when I think the name 'Dean Winchester.' Perhaps that is meant for you."  
  
Dean let that one roll off. “I know Sammeans everything in the world to this guy. I know he thinks of this old drunk and this half-fallen angel as all the family he's got in this world, and he trusts them without question. I know he'll do anything to stop that apocalypse, just because he knows it ain't right. So don't trust me. Don't ever trust me. But try and trust a little in that other guy, because he's here, apparently, and he's gonna be the one that gets us out of this.”  


Meg slow-clapped. “Sure thing, Coach. Go, Panthers.”

 _No_ , Sam said.

Dean closed his eyes. It had sounded sorta good, but he couldn't blame Sam for not buying his bullshit.  


_I mean I'm not throwing my faith in that other Dean. I don't even know him, man._

“You know him.” Dean looked at his brother.  


Sam set one hand on Dean's shoulder. _You're my brother, and maybe it's the other Sam in me talking, but I've got to believe that means something._ _Besides, you might be kind of an ass, but at least I know what I'm getting.  
  
_ 'Kind of an ass' didn't begin to cover it, and they both knew it. Hell, for the first time, Dean was _planning_ on betraying Sam, even now, as Sam stupidly chose to believe in him.  
  
He swallowed and nodded. "Thanks, Sam."  
  
Sam withdrew his hand, but he stayed near Dean's side.

“I haven't agreed to trust you yet.” Castiel didn't exactly look touched. Maybe one person still had some brains.  


Dean couldn't let that stop him. “You're still here, ain't ya?”

Castiel considered him. Finally, he drew out his angel sword and handed it to Dean. “There's a chance Raphael will kill me first. If that happens, I want you to be prepared.”  
  
Dean took the sword, which felt heavy for its size, and warm. Book-Dean was clearly something special, if invoking his name got Cas to agree something that could get him killed. Real-Dean's stomach felt tight and sick, because he knew he didn't have any other options, here, but he was still going to end up hurting anyone stupid enough to trust him. Sam was going to come out better in this deal, as long as he avoided saying 'yes' to Lucifer. He didn't think he could say the same about Cas.  
  
Then again, the guilt probably wasn't _his_.  
  
"I hope this isn't as foolish as it seems." Castiel's low rumble said he thought it was way worse.  
  
"You guys do realize I only get a third of your conversation, right?" Chuck said.  
  
Castiel turned to him. “Dean has a plan. It seems to involve you.”

“Oh. Well, I'm probably just gonna stay here. My visions say the archangels don't bother me so much, and it looks like I'm gonna have to be here if you're trying to call one down. That is Dean's plan, still, right? I mean, there's Meg and everything, but I don't want to assume.”  
  
Dean slipped the sword into his jacket, as best as he could without a blade sheath or holster. “Alright, then. Let's hope we'll all stay friends in another life.”

“Could we can the suicide talk?” Meg asked.  


But Cas was already by her side. “ _Flee_.”  
  
Meg stumbled across the diner's floor, like she'd been thrown there. Cas must've broken the trap.  


“Just so you know, Sam,” Dean said. “If I die, I ain't dying angry.”

Sam smiled, small and tight. _Me neither._  
  
A low buzz filled the air.

“Oh man,” Chuck said. “I never like this part.”

The sound built. It caught at the back of Dean's jaw and itched through his molars, crawling deep into his inner ear where it burrowed, like a parasitic worm.

Silverware knocked against glasses and plates, creating chimes.

The sound rose. It seared up his spine, branched through nerves. He heard glass crack and fissure. He looked out the nearest window, and he didn't know if it was the noise or the pressure, but the Shadows seemed to be moving in, condensing. Clouds of them billowed through and withdrew from the walls, like a tide, like a fucking black sea.

_Pop_ .

A light fixture blew above Dean's head.

_Pop. Pop!_

Sparks rained.

The sound became a metallic, high-pitched scream. There was about a split-second between it being so loud it hurt and _fucking awful pain_.

Dean fell to his knees. Then, they gave out, too.

Sam, he noticed, was on the ground with him, except a lot closer to the wall. The other two were standing just fine. Neither of them were running. Chuck may have been laying a hand on Castiel's shoulder.

Black smoke tore from Meg's mouth.  
  
The pain tore through Dean, just as bad as he remembered, only then it got worse. He curled onto the floor, and the glass burst in the windows, and he couldn't breathe or think or do anything but _hurt_.

Everything was happening so quick. Dean didn't know how much time had passed. He just knew the room was getting _bright_.

Meg's body fell to the ground.

Chuck stood as tall as he got, his skin bleached colorless by some terrible, all-encompassing light.

“Close your eyes!” Castiel shouted, his voice a low, rumbling roll that managed to get through. 

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. Light knifed through his lids, and it was too much, too much, even with his head tucked down into his chest, his knees moving to block his face. Blood rushed to his head. He could feel it. Coursing. Vibrating. Pushing against vein and artery. Against bone. He was going to explode.  
  
 _Snap._

The building stopped shaking.

Dean sensed, deep down, that something real and awful and immense had stepped into the room. He rolled onto his side and opened his eyes.  
  
A pair of expensive-looking dress shoes filled his vision. Brown. Soft leather. Wing-tips.

He looked up.

A man blinked down at him. He was older, in his fifties, maybe, but he looked like he'd never been _young_. His eyes bulged from deep-set and shadowed sockets, and the look they gave was hard and keen. He wore a suit. He could've been anyone in middle management. 

“Ah,” he said. “Dean Winchester. I'd been wondering when you'd call.”

“This isn't right,” Chuck said. “This isn't the right guy. That's Zachariah. He's not even an archangel!”  
  
Sam's eyes widened. _Dean, this isn't good. Zachariah's really bad news_. _Crap. What are we going to do now?_  
  
Dean figured they didn't have many options–they had no choice but to see how things played.

“Where's Raphael?” Castiel practically growled. "What is this, brother?"  
  
Zachariah rolled his shoulder back. “Raphael, _brother_ , was otherwise occupied. If it works better for you, think of me as Michael's right hand man. Which, honestly, Chuck here should know, since he's been sucking in some other guy's prophecies for, oh, over a year, now.”  
  
Dean pulled himself to his feet, feeling about a million years old. “Sorry, dude, but I wanna speak to your manager.”

 _Dean. You don't understand. Zachariah in the books, he–_ Sam got cut off when Zachariah started talking.  
  
“Dean, Dean, Dean. You know what your problem is? Apart from the fact that you're awful uppity for human scum?”

"I'm too pretty for my own good?"

Zachariah adjusted his tie. “Heaven does so much for you, but you never stop _bitching_ and _moaning_ and _demanding_. What do you think someone like me owes something like you? Really?”

Dean tried again. “I–”

Zachariah smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. “Besides, you should be thanking me, kid. I'm the guy that saved the world.”  
  
###


	14. Chapter 14

Castiel stepped forward. “You can't have created this...merge between universes. You aren't that powerful. How could you both retain your vessel and keep that hidden from the host?” _  
_  
Zachariah shrugged. The movement came a lot easier to him than to Cas. "Who says they didn't know?" _  
_ _  
_Sam kept his voice low, like someone who wasn't Dean could hear him. _Zachariah does things with universes in the books. Or memories. He made us think we were office workers, once, and he sent you into this future that was probably fake. He was manipulating you so you would say 'yes' to Michael. So far, it hasn't worked.  
_

Dean tried not to think about Sam saying 'we' and 'you' and meaning people from the books. "How far did you read?"  
 _  
As far as I could. I didn't finish them all. I stopped reading when you and I were dead and in Heaven, and Zachariah was trying to stop us from finding a garden._  
  
"Book-us lead stupid lives."  
  
 _Afterlives. Technically._  
  
"Ahem." Zachariah raised both eyebrows. "You might want to pay attention. Michael gave me a little juice on loan. I'm his right hand man, remember?” Zachariah clucked his tongue. "What am I going to do with you Cas? You used to be so loyal. Now, you take one gander at some meathead in flannel, and you turn traitor? Do you really think that's something I can let slide?”

Castiel's eyes widened.

Zachariah snapped his fingers.  
  
Steaming, liquified _something_ splattered like downpour. Dean felt something steam through him, but he was Shadow enough that it didn't stick. He looked down, and he saw a red, tacky mess coating the floor.  
  
Holy crap. _Holy crap_. That was _Cas_.  
  
Chuck had gotten the brunt of the explosion. Cas-goop coated his skin like a spa treatment from a horror movie. Something glistened in the wet, dark mass of his beard. It was a tooth. A freaking molar.  
  
“Oh, God," Chuck said. "This has gotta be the world's worst deja vu.”

Zachariah seemed pleased as punch. "I always thought that looked like fun. And hey, bonus, we didn't have to hear him whining."

“What the Hell? Cas was just trying to help!” Dean didn't know if it was him or the other Dean, but _someone_ wanted to wipe that smirk from Zachariah's face.

“You can stop worrying. Castiel's like a cockroach. He's never really dead.” Zachariah adjusted his jacket.  
  
 _He exploded! That seems pretty dead!_  
  
“I only destroyed his vessel. Believe me, I would've been happy to kill the real him, too, but I'm only playing an archangel on TV. He's up in Heaven, and Heaven's not sparing the rod, but he's better off than you two. Three."

Sam stared at Zachariah. _God, Dean. I hope you know what you're doing._ _  
_

Dean shook his head.  
  
Zachariah gaze moved between them. He knew they were talking, at least. Dean didn't know if he could also hear the words. “Sam, Dean, I did exactly what you knuckleheads asked for. What you prayed for, even. I stopped the apocalypse. Sam's free from Lucifer. Michael can't use Dean. There aren't any vessels anymore, so no one's going to be making your great-great-great grandkids start the apocalypse round two. It's all over. The world's saved! The crowd goes wild!”

As if on cue, the Shadow thing outside made a soft, whispering noise.  
  
 _Except maybe this world will end, too, if we're dumb enough to believe Meg._ _Even if we aren't, what about the Shadows? They only way to fix them is for Dean to say 'yes'._ Dean didn't know exactly what Sam had read in Chuck's books, but he could hear the distrust in his voice. Sam hated this guy.

Dean couldn't think about that. “Somehow, this don't feel like winning. Those are kids out there that you Shadowed. Families.”

Zachariah didn't look like his vessel's heart was going to start bleeding anytime soon. “What do you think the apocalypse was going to do to them? Look, you can't expect the whole universe–make that two of them–to be rewritten just the way you want. Things happen when you change, say, the ultimate fate of a world. An eternity of mindless wandering? Hey, it's still better than Hell on Earth. Personally, I'd take the option where Michael wins and everyone goes to Heaven, but we've never seen eye-to-eye on that one.”

“Okay,” Dean said. “But how about the part where the only way to save my brother is to say 'yes'?”

“Well, hey, no one says you _have_ to save him. This is what we call free will at work. You're welcome to doom yourself and your brother and all the nice people currently forming a blob of inter-dimensional world-eating nothingness right outside this very diner...or you can say 'yes' and put two universes back to rights. It's really up to you.” _  
_

“Can I think it over?” Dean wasn't so sure why he was stalling–hadn't he been gung-ho to give in to Michael fifteen minutes ago? What had changed? Besides discovering that he hated Zachariah's face?  
  
If it was book-Dean working his emotions like a yo-yo, that guy deserved a punch in the mouth.  


"Time? Sure, I'll give you time. In fact, why don't you sit back while I put on a little mood music?” Zachariah raised his hand.

Dean braced himself, waiting for another people-splosian. He heard a soft gurgle, followed by a choking gasp.

 _Chuck! Are you okay?  
_  
Chuck was not even a little okay. He sank to the ground, red painting the corners of his mouth.

"Look familiar?" Zachariah grinned at Dean. "Alcohol's one of my favorite addictions. The way it corrodes the body? I'm telling you. It's a thing of beauty. Cirrhosis. That's always a good one. Then there's the slow weakening of the heart, the rupture of the stomach lining, the dead brain cells.”

Chuck's skin took on a yellow tinge, wherever it wasn't covered in Cas. His irises were practically neon.  
  
“Stop,” Dean said. “Just let him go. I'm saying 'yes,' dammit. You know I wouldn't have done that whole thing with Meg and Chuck otherwise. Call Michael down here, and he'll get my 'yes.'”  
  
Zachariah actually seemed surprised.

Sam looked at him, aghast. His voice, when it came, sounded unbelievably small. _You can't._ His hurt took about an eighth of a second to become anger. _Oh, God, don't tell me this was the plan the whole time. I trusted you, Dean! Cas trusted you! How could you do this?_  
  
Chuck continued to splutter, right up until he stopped. Dean hoped he'd just fallen unconscious.  
  
“I'm a bad guy, Sam. I get to do bad guy stuff.”  Dean hated this. He hated having the fate of two worlds in his hands. Whose bright idea was that?  He couldn't look at Sam right then. He just couldn't. He wondered if his brother would try and rush him.  
  
Zachariah must have been worrying about the same thing, because he extended a palm, and suddenly Sam was pushed back against the nearest wall. He was too close to the other Shadows for Dean's comfort. He didn't want Sammy getting sucked in.  
  
"Stop looking at me like that," Zachariah said. "I'll let him up as soon as Michael gets here."  
  
Sam fought against whatever was pinning him. _Dean, please. I know you think you're saving me, but I don't want you to do it like this.  
_

Dean eyeballed Zachariah, who didn't seem to be placing any telephone calls. What was going on? Had he changed his mind? “C'mon! I'm giving in! I'm saying 'yes!' You heard me! It's a 'yes,' dammit!”  
  
Except: Something was starting to bother Dean about this whole deal, and he didn't think it was coming from that other Dean, since he was starting to think that book-Dean was the one who thought saying 'yes' was such an awesome plan in the first place. He studied Zachariah, and he tried to put his finger on the thing bothering him.  
  
The poker cliché wasn't as true as a lot of people thought. It wasn't _all_ about knowing how to play your hands; if it were purely a skill game, at least a few people would've gotten good enough to never lose. It wasn't all about bluffing or disguising when you'd hit your flush, either, though that crap certainly helped.  
  
You had to watch how the other players _played_.

This wasn't poker. Dean didn't know the odds or the hands. But Zachariah had made one Hell of a play. He'd combined _two universes_ just to get one guy to say 'yes'–and that guy had _wanted_ to give himself over. Heaven must not have known that last part. Heaven must have thought book-Dean was gonna hold out, that they needed to do something big to bring him in line, and they'd gone all-out to make it happen.  
  
Dean was willing to bet that Zachariah couldn't afford to lose.  
  
The world sharpened. Anticipation spiked through Dean's veins. He was gonna do this. He was gonna do _something_ , anyway.  
  
Zachariah looked toward the sky. “Well, that's it, then. Message received. It's been nice working with you, boys.”

“Who said I was finished?” Dean drew a deep breath. He met Zachariah's eyes, and he didn't look away. “I've got some conditions.” 

_Dean?_ _What are you doing?_ Sam sounded worried, but there wasn't much Dean could do about that.

“You're treading on thin ice, kiddo.” Zachariah stepped forward. His eyes flashed.

Dean didn't back down. In fact, he inched up another step. Castiel's sword felt hot-cold and heavy inside his coat. “You need me. Michael needs me. At least, he needs my 'yes.' Am I really supposed to believe that you'd just let me and Sam wander around for all of eternity? Or let us die whenever the Shadows do whatever they're gonna? Hell, if I'd refused, you'd probably have put the two universes back no matter what. Maybe I do gotta choice, but that don't mean this game ain't rigged.”

“It's too late for any of your little stunts," Zachariah said. "Michael's coming."

“Good. Tell him if he wants my body, he's gonna have to kill you.”

Fear flashed through Zachariah's eyes, fleeting but unmistakable. “He'd never agree to that.”

“Who do you think's more important to him? You or me?” Dean was getting right into Zachariah's face now, almost to Cas-distance.

The diner shook. Michael was coming.  
  
Which, you know, _crap_.

“You're playing with things you don't understand,” Zachariah said, as that fucking awful noise started up again. Which meant that Dean didn't have much time.

“So are you.” Dean grabbed at the sword and lunged forward–  
  
It slid into Zachariah's skin, easy, like butter. Once there, though, the metal shook, like firecrackers were going off against the blade.

“You can't do this.” But blood was trickling from Zachariah's nose. “There's something I need you to understand. You don't have a choice in this, Dean. Not really. Even now. If Michael puts things back, guess what? You're still choosing to end the world, Dean. You're starting the apocalypse again. This is what you do. This is what you always will do. Some might call it your _raison_ _d'etre_.”  
  
Jesus. He had a magic sword in his gut. Why wasn't he dying?  
  
Zachariah continued, somehow, “That other Sam's an addict. You really think he's not going to give in? Do whatever he can to get the juice? You know better, Dean. You've spent your whole life trying to get better, and you're just as bad as you've ever been.”  
  
"Sam ain't me," Dean said.  
  
Zachariah grinned, red staining his teeth. He set a hand on the sword, right where it entered his middle. "I guess Castiel didn't read you the fine print? Only an angel can kill another angel. Well, the occasional instrument of Heaven can manage, but you're not either. Not yet."  
  
 _Let's try an instrument of nothing, then._ And then Sam was there, too, his freaky Shadow mitts plunging into Zachariah's back as Dean held the sword from the front. 

White-hot light flared around Zachariah's irises. It expanded–  
  
Sam dropped him with a yelp, and Dean saw wings char themselves onto the ground. He knew, bone-deep, that the angel was dead.  
  
 _This was your plan the whole time, huh?_ Sam panted.  
  
“We can go with that.”

_Do you really have that much faith in me? After everything? You shouldn't. I told you I trusted you, and look how long that lasted. Dean, I–  
_

“I could use my brother right now, not Meg Ryan.”

Killing Zachariah hadn't stopped Michael. The sound was just getting worse, and light was starting to come in from the windows–

 _Crap._ _Now what?_

“Michael will fix things. He needs that other Dean, don't he?” Dean shouted so Sam could hear.

_Okay._ Sam paused.  _Or maybe we could make a run for it?_

“Fine. Yeah. Let's do that.”

Dean scooped up Chuck and headed for the door–

But the Shadows pressed in–a long, slow slide had them edging the diner's whole perimeter. They stopped, some still caught in the diner's walls. Something told Dean he didn't want to touch them. Something else told him it didn't really matter anymore.  
  
 _What do you think they're doing? Holding us for Michael?_

The light gained strength. It was coming slower this time around, but Dean knew it was only a matter of time before he was curled up on the ground, screaming.  
  
Sam grabbed Dean's shoulder. It didn't feel quite as bad as usual. _Dean,_ what happens if Michael gets here? Did that 'yes' count?   
  
"Heaven's pretty damn desperate. They might be thinking that fake 'yes' was good enough."  
  
The Shadows closed in another inch, two inches, inch and a half.

Sam caught Dean's eye. _I don't regret seeing you again. I really did miss you. I hate myself, for saying what I did. God, Dean. The way you looked at me._  
  
"We don't have time to sit here and talk through our issues. So can't we just...not do this? I forgive you, Sam. You got that? I know you were only protecting yourself, and I meant what I said before. I ain't dying angry.” Dean set Chuck down, since escape wasn't looking like a viable option.  
  
 _Hopefully, we're not dying. Not all of us.  
_

The Shadows grew closer yet. Dean fought the urge to clamp his hands over his ears.

“Sammy?” he shouted.

_Yeah, Dean?_

“Let's get it over with. You and me. Together." Dean didn't know exactly what would happen, but it had to be better than waiting around for Michael to take him. If he were a Shadow, he'd be useless. That meant Michael would have to fix some things.  
  
Didn't it?  
  
He and Sam exchanged a long look. Dean didn't know what all his brother was thinking, but it didn't look _bad_.

Sam drew in a deep breath. _Count of three?_  
  
Dean nodded. “One, two–”

They both jumped early, like when they were kids. Dean rushed into the mass of Shadows, and he seized, and he condensed, and he felt himself go wide and forever and–

– _Blip._

That was it. That was all. Dean was done.  
  
#  
  
Dean jerked upright. He took in concrete walls, a devil's trap in the ceiling grate, Cas standing over his cot, watching him like a creeper. He was in Bobby's panic room, and he didn't know how he'd gotten there.  
  
Holy crap. Cas was alive. Except Dean wasn't totally sure why that came as a surprise.  
  
"I'm glad to see you awake." Castiel didn't look very glad, but he didn't look pissed, either.  
  
Dean rubbed the back of his head, checking for lumps. "What the Hell happened, Cas? I remember–"  
  
Whoa. A headache blazing behind his eyeballs, and he remembered two lives, except they weren't quite meshing. His life–his real life–was front and center, but shadows of that other Dean weren't all gone.  
  
The last thing real-him remembered was Castiel walloping him in that alley, but when Dean probed his face, he didn't feel any major bruising, much less a broken nose.  
  
He'd been planning on saying 'yes.' He remembered that much. A lot of people would die, and he hated even thinking about that, but it had to be better than everyone dying–  
  
He thought he remembered a diner. Castiel exploding. Something dark closing in. He couldn't make sense of everything.  
  
"Cas. I'm kind of reeling here, man."  
  
"I'm not surprised." Castiel frowned. "When the universes separated–when two versions of myself did so as well–I escaped Heaven and found my vessel repaired. One might call it a minor miracle. Zachariah very nearly removed me from this fight. Had he killed me, I'd be dead in two universes.  
  
Dean finished making sure he was all in one piece. “You remember all that?”

"I'm an angel, Dean." It sounded an awful lot like a 'duh.'

Crap. _Crap_. Dean was remembering now: Idiot-him had been an asshole to Cas. He'd gone to _Meg_ , for crissakes! Then there was that thing with the universe bleed or whatever the Hell that had been, with Castiel dropping everything for Dean–except the real Cas should have been beating him up in an alley, not rescuing him from one. Dean didn't know what had been them and what had been some assholes from another universe.  
  
“You remember me thinking that you were out to get me and Sam?” Dean asked.  
  
"It's been awhile since we were that antagonistic."  
  
Dean touched his jaw and remembered Castiel's first punch, like a rock with a bus behind it. He should have bruises. He should have wires through his jaw.  
  
Castiel sighed. “I don't hold it against you, Dean. You confused me. I didn't understand why I felt that I had to disobey. Finding the prophecies was almost a relief, because it excused my caring for you and Sam.” Castiel looked beyond panic room's door. “Yesterday, in this universe, I lost all faith in you."  
  
Dean didn't want to hear that crap again. He swung his legs over the side of the cot. “You tried to save me in that alley.”  
  
He meant the one in the purple universe. Castiel had been stopping him in the real alley; Dean wasn't sure that 'saving' entered into it.

“I saved you from Hell, Dean. This second attempt was a small thing, even if it didn't feel that way at the time.” Castiel sat next to him, making the cot dip. “You–the hybrid you–avoided giving yourself to Michael and undid the Shadows. Zachariah underestimated you. So did I.”

Something in Dean's chest squeezed tight, thinking _Sam_.

"I believe Zachariah set us up as enemies. I think he intended lessons for us both."  
  
Dean nodded. That other him had been a jackass and a crook, but in a lot of ways, they weren't so different. Maybe Cas was supposed to see that. Zachariah must not have known that the real him and Cas weren't joining each other's fan clubs anytime soon.

“You learn anything?”

Castiel's gaze was tired, but also warm. Dean–the other, less awesome Dean–he'd only seen glimpses, here and there, of _this_ Castiel. Dean had almost forgotten what his friend had been like, back when he'd been an unfeeling bastard. “No. I don't think I have.”

"Thanks, Cas.” Dean looked at his own hands. They looked human enough.  
  
They rested, in a silence just this side of uncomfortable. Castiel didn't seem inclined to leave, like he usually did. Dean got that. When the universe changed all around you, sometimes you needed to take a moment to stay still.

Dean remembered something else. Zachariah had _mind-melded_ him to some dumb asshole just to get that 'yes.' He'd combined two separate universe. That wasn't brainwashing Dean into drinking rice milk smoothies. That wasn't sending him into some possible future, where he and Sam didn't talk and Cas was a whore. The other him had been a dumbass, but he'd been right about one thing: Heaven was really fucking desperate.

Also, hey, Zachariah was dead. There were upsides to everything.  
  
“Heaven sure went out of their way this time, huh?”

“I would say so.”

“They must think we're winning.”

“We're not,” Castiel said, because he was basically Debbie Downer wrapped in a trench coat. “The apocalypse rages on. The last I heard, you'd given up.”

Dean breathed deep, inhaling dust. “You know what? I don't think I have.”  
  
#

Dean found Sam outside, by the Impala, which looked just fine, thank God.

Sam looked human. His skin was _skin_. His hair was _hair_. The sun hit him, and it _hit him_.

He saw Dean.

Dean couldn't tell what he was thinking, but he doubted it was good. He shifted his weight, feeling uneasy, and said the first thing that came into his head: “I can't believe I missed your ugly mug.”

Sam grinned. He strode forward and grabbed Dean, wrapping him up in the kind of hug he usually reserved for miraculous comebacks from the dead. “You're such a fucking idiot."

Dean squeezed Sam tighter, and for one, dumb moment, he let himself take heart.  
  
Fin.  
  
 _Except ..._ _ _  
  
  
__

###  



	15. Chapter 15

_Two months later..._

“You're really going, then?” Sam asked.

"You know me. I gotta leave before Bobby decides he's had enough and shoots me." Dean stuffed his duffel bag in the Impala's trunk, right over the newly installed secret compartment, which, as it turned out, had not always been there.

He'd been at Bobby's for the past couple months. Separating the universes hadn't fixed his back, and Cas still didn't have the mojo to heal him. But Bobby was doing pretty good, considering. He even seemed slightly saner than Dean remembered, so maybe the Vulcan mind-meld had rewired some things for the better. He still remembered all that demon and monster crap, too, even if it competed with a lot of stuff about aliens and the cthulhu.

Trying to keep track of the A and B sides was hard for all of them. Dean's memories–the ones that were really _his_ –were more distinct than that other guy's, but he mixed up small things, like what town he'd been in that time with Dad, or whether Sam preferred strawberry or vanilla milkshakes. Other things were just plain weird, like knowing he'd never worked for an Alastair, but an  _Al_ , or where his brain had connected events from two different universes in odd ways. Cas told him that stuff would get better with time, and Dean mostly believed him. It wasn't like he could do much about it, either way.

Sam ran a fond hand over the Impala's top. She was finally back into her former shape, and she shone in the South Dakota sunlight. It was still cold, even if the calendar said they were creeping toward spring, but the ground wasn't frozen and the air held a hint of promise.

Sam had gone back home to California shortly after being de-Shadowed. Dean didn't know exactly what he'd done there, except that after a year's absence, he no longer had his job or his girlfriend, and hadn't been able to find his dog. The public knew that the Shadows were gone, but no one seemed to realize that people had popped up in their place. A lot of conspiracy plots had hatched up over things like weird paper trails–houses belonging to two people at once, children who'd been missing from schools for over a year without anyone noticing.

Dean guessed that Claire had to be one of them, though Castiel hadn't given much in the way of Novak family updates. In any case, the civil suits would be tying up the courts for years.  
  
Dean wasn't sure how Castiel was still around, much less in the same vessel. The angel told Dean that he'd spent some time getting tortured back into obedience, only he'd been able to escape. He'd called it a "minor miracle" while wearing the kind of expression that said he'd hoped for a bigger one.

“There may be some lingering effects from our blended personalities,” he'd said, once, with a careful look at Sam. “I'm not sure if Zachariah intended to set the stages for an apocalypse to happen here as well, but we can't ignore the possibility that you're now suited to be Lucifer's vessel, in a way that you weren't before.”

“Right. Because I could still have demon blood in me. Maybe.”  
  
"You did carry it for awhile. I'm sorry, Sam. It should never have been your burden."  


Dean really needed to get around to reading the damn books. Castiel didn't have enough juice for Bobby, but Chuck, apparently, was an easier heal. Dean didn't know if he was still having visions of the other world, or if he'd switched over to watching Dean drink too much liquor (he was  _trying_ to cut back, but he'd been drinking so long he couldn't go cold turkey). Anyway, Chuck and Sam were staying in touch, and he'd agreed to let them know if he saw anything they oughta know. 

Sam stopped fondling the car and looked past Dean's shoulder. “You going, too?”

Dean turned his head. “Dammit, Cas.”  
  
The angel hadn't gotten any better about surprise appearances.

Castiel addressed Sam. “I plan on assisting your brother, as much as I'm able.”

Dean knew he wasn't being evasive; just honest. Besides, Castiel had told him that, as long as he was cut-off from Heaven, his powers would fade, and he knew a human Cas would face one Hell of a learning curve. For Castiel's sake, Dean hoped someone upstairs forgave him, but he doubted it would happen. He didn't think too highly of Heaven.

“What are you going to do?” Sam asked Dean. “Find another town? Get a job? Stick around a few months?”

“Hey, Cas. Can you give us a minute? I need to talk to my brother.”

Castiel canted his head, like 'go ahead.'

“Alone?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course. I'll...let Bobby yell at me some more.” Castiel seemed embarrassed. He disappeared.

Sam and Dean blinked at each other.  
  
They'd been doing better. Dean didn't know if it was because they'd been forced to deal with at least some of their shit or because they still remembered the feelings of their doppelgangers, but they were both making an effort to get along, and Dean was starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, this was how it was gonna stay–that Sam wouldn't drop him like a hot potato at the first sign of trouble. That maybe Dean wouldn't destroy everything for Sam.

You know. If they got past this part.  
  
“I wasn't thinking about getting a job so much as _doing_ one." Dean waited for Sam to get it.  


It didn't take long. Sam raised his eyebrows. He had real eyebrows now. But he didn't _say_ anything.

“There are people being drained of their blood in Mississippi. Someone's abducting kids near this lake in upstate New York. The cops aren't finding anything but their livers. I thought, you know, I'm not so bad at this hunting gig, and maybe I could use my criminal skills for good, you know?” Dean grew more defensive as Sam's silence continued. “B-side Dean gets up to a lot of shit, same as me, but he's a good guy. I figured maybe the hunting gives him something he needs, something _I_ need, to stay in the right kind of trouble. I–”

Sam held up a hand to stop Dean's rambling. His eyes shone. “In Texas, several hikers have disappeared around the same cave system. No one's found a thing.”

Dean felt something warm bubble up from his chest and expand. “You thinking what I'm thinking? The two of us on the road? Hunting things–”

“–Saving people,” Sam finished. “Well, you're gonna need someone who has your back, and no offense to Cas, but I doubt he knows his way around a search engine.” He smiled toothy and ridiculous, like a kid. "I think we can make this work."

Fifteen minutes later, Sam's stuff was packed up, they'd said their goodbyes to Bobby, and Sam had called 'shotgun,' much to Castiel's confusion. “How does naming a weapon convey seating preference?”

Dean slapped him on the back. “It just does.”

Castiel had looked kinda pleased at the gesture, if still bewildered. He got into the backseat.

Dean started the engine. His baby purred to life. “Where to?”

“New York,” Sam said. “Something's killing little kids, man. That's gotta take priority.”

“Something's killing children?” Castiel asked. “Is it ritualistic, or are they serving as a food source?”  
  
For a second, Dean wondered what the Hell he thought he was doing. Then, he looked over at Sam. He didn't know if they were going to keep up this being brothers crap. He didn't know if they'd even survive their first case. This stuff was crazy. Only idiots would choose this kind of life.  
  
But goddammit, Dean wanted it. Him and Sam and hunting. He wanted to try.  


Dean turned up his music.  _Gunter glieben glauchen globen._

“Dude. Do we really have to listen to this?”  


_It's better to burn out than fade away._

Dean hit the gas. “C'mon, kids. Let's go be hunters.”  
  
 _The End._

 ###  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: This fic was a long time in coming (it's actually the very first Supernatural fic that I started), and so had me confronting a lot of Very Interesting Issues that come with resurrecting 20k from a shallow grave and deciding there's a story worth finishing. In other words, my alphas and betas are saints, and they should have nice things.
> 
> Special, Alphabetical Thanks To:  
> blueteainfusion, who gave me some very nice and useful feedback;  
> chef_geekier, who stepped in at the last minute to draw me delightful things;  
> Diamondtook, who came out of fandom retirement to remind me that Dean wouldn't moon like I moon;  
> ever_neutral, who helped me when I first started writing and Bobby sounded like an angry Swedish Chef;  
> Molly_C, for plot and character chats and helping Dean be less stupid;  
> Snickfic, who has been invaluable in terms of endless patience, general cheerleading, and solving Huge Problems in two to three seconds; and  
> the Wonderful Mods of spn_j2_bigbang, wendy and thehighwaywoman.


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